


carved anew

by ont



Series: mockingbird [7]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Harry, Adoption, Anal Sex, Angst, Blended family, Canon Compliant, Childbirth, Couples Pictionary, Domestic, Exes, Family Drama, Grand Romantic Gestures, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, IVF, Kid Fic, Long-Term Relationship(s), Louis coaching a youth football team, M/M, Marriage Counseling, Marriage Proposal, Medical Trauma, Middle-Aged One Direction, Midlife Crisis, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, OT5, Old Marrieds, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Miscarriage, Past Relationship(s), Planned Pregnancy, Post-Canon, Post-Zayn One Direction, Pregnant Harry, So Many Stepdads, Therapy, Wedding, Workaholic Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 104,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9109834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ont/pseuds/ont
Summary: He's in a barrel wave when it closes out and sends him spinning, filling his sinuses full of saltwater. He has no idea where he is for a terrifying ten seconds as he's beaten toward shore, fumbling for his tether, and then his board cracks him in the forehead.Through his haze of panic, he realizes he's got to stop fighting and let the waves take him in.It’s 2038. Harry and Zayn are trying for a late in life baby, Louis and Liam are working through some marital issues, and Louis and Zayn’s daughter finds herself adrift post-uni.





	1. Chapter 1

KENSINGTON, JUNE 1, 2038

_Dear Mr Harry Styles CBE,_

 

_You are receiving this email because the 30 eggs you have banked with us will, as of July 1, have been stored at The London Fertility Clinic for eighteen years. Our records show that you previously sought an extension on your ten year expiry date, which was granted._

 

_However, these eggs have remained in our bank since then. According to our policy, we do not retain any genetic material for longer than eighteen years. You have not yet reached out to us about the many options we offer, such as having these eggs fertilised for later implantation, pursuing IVF treatments through our clinic, or donating the eggs to our bank._

 

_If we fail to hear from you by July 1, 2038, this genetic material will be destroyed on that date. You will not be billed for the destruction._

 

_We hope to hear from you soon. If you wish to pursue the above options, please text the below number._

 

_All the best,_

_Martha W. Grant_

_Resources Director at The London Fertility Clinic_

 

*

 

Harry glances at his watch. It tells him that Zayn is out on the patio.

He moves through the house slowly, lost in thought. It’s always quiet here in the long afternoon hours before Cala gets home from school. The soft thunk of the grandfather clock in the dining room sounds louder than usual to him as he approaches the patio doors.

Zayn is laying back in a lounge chair, smoking one of the nicotine-free, tobacco-free cigarettes that Mia has forced on him of late; meant to mimic the experience without the smell or carcinogens. He was cranky about this at first, but grudgingly came around. Finding real cigarettes nowadays is hard, anyway.

“Hi,” Harry says to him.

“Hi, love,” Zayn says, blowing out some smoke. “I thought you went out. Was hopin’ that was you and not a robber. ‘Sup?”

Harry laughs. He comes over and perches next to Zayn’s knees. “I was about to leave, and then I got…”

He opens the email and shakes his watch at Zayn’s. It pops up there. Zayn begins to read, knitting his eyebrows.

“I didn’t know those even still existed,” he says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Harry shrugs. “Dunno.”

Zayn reaches out and strokes his thigh. “So are you just gonna let ‘em go?”

“I wanted to see what you thought,” Harry says carefully, observing him.

Zayn leans his head back and bites his lip. He looks more than a year older than Harry, these days. After being a parent for so many years, and all the hard living he’s done, he looks more like five or six. He’s still unfairly handsome, anyway.

“Don’t get my hopes up like this,” he says, with a wry smile.

“I’m not,” Harry assures him. “I’m…”

He looks at his hands. It’s a lovely spring day, and a breeze blows across them as he weighs what he’s about to say.

“There’s so much to consider,” he says. “Cala’s my main concern. I don’t want to upset her life, at all.”

“Right.”

“But it could be nice for her, couldn’t it? Especially if we included her a lot in the process?”

Harry rubs his eyes.

“Babe, what are we talkin’ about here?” Zayn says, ashing his smoke and sitting up. Harry glances at him.

“You don’t mean to get pregnant at forty-four?” he continues, looking slightly hopeful even as he does. “Can you even _do_ that?”

“I mean, or we could use a surrogate,” Harry says.

Zayn nods slowly.

“But I... “ Harry’s voice grows very soft. He looks down at the buttons on Zayn’s shirt. One is mismatched to its hole, and he reaches out and fixes it. “I might like to try?”

“What about last time, though?” Zayn says, with worried eyes.

Unbeknownst to either of them at the time, Harry had gotten pregnant while they were in the process of adopting Cala, and between all of the stress of that and the back-and-forth flights to a newly liberated and war-torn Palestine, he had been shocked to find himself suffering a miscarriage out of the blue. It felt so despairingly common, like a root canal, and yet was tremendously painful.

Zayn had wept more than he had over it. Harry had succumbed to numbness, and after that had always shaken off any suggestions from Zayn about trying. Only his mum and Gemma know it happened. He was frightened of being pitied for it.

“I was upset,” Harry says. “I’m not so upset, now. I reckon I could handle it if it happened again... It’s just I feel like this is a betrayal of what we’ve always said to each other, you know? That we ought to adopt as many kids in need as we can, and at least one from here in England, so we aren’t, like, terrible colonialists.”

“Right… we can still do that, though, can’t we?”

“And we’re not getting any younger,” Harry mutters, pressing on. He's on a roll now. “And the world is barely getting better. Just better enough to keep on going. There are still nuclear weapons, war, climate change, whatever… should we really make a new person, bring them into all this?”

Zayn sighs.

“And your daughter just left _uni_ ,” Harry says. He feels reality settling back into him unpleasantly. “We’re in our middle forties. I don’t know what I’m really thinking, here. This is sort of crazy, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t,” Zayn assures him. “It isn’t so strange nowadays, to put off having children so late. And me and Louis had Yas young...”

He settles closer to Harry, putting a hand on his forearm.

“The thing about Cala is she’s _got_ parents,” Zayn murmurs. “Even if she doesn’t remember them much. Even if they’re gone. And that’s going to be such a part of her, like, personal history. We’ve always said, like, we’ve got to tell Cala all about her parents, she’s got to read their work, she’s got to travel back to Palestine, if she wants. She ought to feel like she knows them.”

“Of course. I know.”

“I reckon it’s alright for us to want to… I don’t know. Be someone’s original parents. It might even make it easier for us someday to let her fully be her own person with her own history, and think of them as her real parents, even if it hurts us.”

“But what if it hurts her?” Harry says, upset at the very prospect. “What if -- I mean, listen to what you’re saying. Her parents are gone, none of her other family could take her in, the house she spent her first two years in has been bombed to hell, she spent six months in an orphanage. Our kid wouldn't have any of that baggage… how's she going to feel?”

“I absolutely get everythin’ you’re sayin’, here,” Zayn says. “I reckon you're being a little exaggeratory… I dunno. We’ve got to think on this a lot.”

“I agree, but the thing is, we’ve got a month.”

“Let’s spend a month thinking on it a lot, then.” Zayn scratches at his stubbly jaw. “Hey, she’s got the therapist on Monday, hasn't she? Why don't you see what he thinks? If it’d be good for her, or bad, or neither?”

Harry nods. “That’s a good idea,” he says. This all feels deeply surreal to him. “I s’pose I’ll call the clinic.”

 

LONDON, JUNE 4, 2038

Cala swings her feet as she sits in a chair in the waiting room, paging through a lifestyle magazine, looking at the pictures. Harry pushes his sunglasses off his face and up onto his head.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out and touching his finger to the tip of her nose. “D’you know how much I love you?”

Cala looks up. “This much,” she says softly, stretching her arms out.

“No, _this_ much,” Harry intones, stretching out his much longer arms.

She giggles and returns to the magazine.

Harry worries over her madly and always has, wanting her to be happy every moment and never want for anything. Zayn said to him a year or so ago, “Look, mate, with everythin’ that’s happened, it’s a miracle she’s as happy-go-lucky as she is,” which far from being reassuring, had made him lie awake that night thinking of her and trying not to cry. His gut is wrenched every time she’s sad, every tantrum of hers feels like a referendum on them.

Mia helps them out often now that she’s got a job in West London and lives close by, but they’ve been having some clashes, lately. At Eid last year, they had gotten in a fight about his protectiveness of Cala, and she’d screamed in exasperation, “Can you just let anything be complicated _?_ ” before storming out of the kitchen.

The older she gets and the longer he and Zayn are together, the less Harry feels like fun stepdad and more like meddling stepmum. The difference is subtle, but there.

Mia’s very good with Cala, and sometimes seems to want to step in for Harry, like when Cala wants her ears pierced, or her hair French braided, or when the two of them go with Zayn to Friday prayer services. Harry has no real problem with this, because the two of them really do get on quite well normally, and she didn’t get to grow up with Zayn. He knows she likes to connect with him through his younger daughter.

But she still has a possessiveness of her father that rankles Harry, a lingering faint hostility over the fact that the two of them have gone and made their own family. Even as much as he sympathizes, it hurts and frustrates him. He’s been realizing in the last week that if he gets pregnant, he’ll have to put his foot down with her more often.

 

*

 

Dr Thompson comes out into the hall all smiles after his hour long session with Cala has wrapped up. She goes to these only once every few months, now, just for upkeep.

“Harry,” he says cheerfully. Harry stands and shakes his hand. “Always nice to see you. Your girl is doing quite well. She was finishing up a puzzle, so I left her to it.”

“Good to hear.”

“You wanted to talk with me privately?”

Harry nods slowly and drags in a large breath.

“So… Zayn and I were thinking about possibly having another child.”

Thompson raises his eyebrows. “Adopting again, you mean?”

“Um, biologically. Although we’d like to adopt again at some point, as well. And… I just wanted to get your opinion on that.”

Dr Thompson’s mouth forms an O. He glances down at his clipboard, taps the screen to dismiss some of his notes, and then clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, “she does seem quite secure in her bond with you both. I’ve said that before.”

“I don’t want to jeopardize that in the least,” Harry says. He uses his most serious voice, the one that makes people take pause, and Dr Thompson does just that. His eyebrows raise and his chin tips up, like Harry is an old-timey hypnotist with endless spirals in his eyes.

“I think you ought to talk to her,” the doctor says. “I think she’s doing quite well, in terms of communicating her emotional needs, and her opinions. If she reacts badly, possibly table it. If she seems excited, I would take her at her word.”

Harry heaves a sigh. “Alright, thank you.”

“Harry, here’s the thing,” Dr Thompson says gently. “Cala isn’t -- she hasn’t got attachment disorder, you know? She’s been very cared for and loved her entire life. She has a lot of love to give and wants to receive it. I know the two of you adore her and would go above and beyond to make her feel alright about this transition, and I think she’d bond with your new baby just fine.”

Harry nods.

“It might even be good for her, to have more family, more connections… to see you be pregnant, to grow up with the child and feel a part of the process.”

“Um, and what if we adopt more kids?” Harry says, fiddling with his rings. “Like, one more?”

Dr Thompson spreads his hands. “All the better! A truly blended family.”

Harry thanks him again and moves to the door, peeking his head in. Cala looks up at him, her dark hair bouncing.

“Ta-da!” she says, pointing at the completed puzzle.

Harry comes to her and slips her jacket over her shoulders. “That’s _very_ impressive,” he says somberly.

 

*

 

“D’you want to talk to her, or should I?” Harry says that night, as he dismounts from his gravity boots and swans over to the bed, feeling limber and taller but a little dizzy.

Zayn removes his glasses and sets them on the duvet, then puts his magazine down.

“Let's do it together,” he says. “Do you have a doctor’s appointment set?”

Harry shakes his head. “I'm waiting until we talk to her…”

He slides down against the covers and puts his head in Zayn's lap. Zayn begins to stroke his hair.

“I can't help get me hopes up,” Zayn mutters. “It's so stupid, like. I was perfectly happy thinking we’d never have one of our own.”

Harry reaches out and squeezes Zayn’s leg.

“Please don't get them too up,” he says gently. “I don't know if the eggs are still viable. We don't know if this will be alright with Cala…”

“I know,” Zayn says, stroking a thumb over his jaw.

“And you got lucky with Mia, or it seems like, but what if this kid’s got addiction, or bipolar two, or anxiety…”

“I know, I know…”

But he runs a hand down Harry’s waist, slipping his fingers under his shirt and running them over the toned and flat stomach underneath. Harry shivers at his cool touch and moves closer to him.

His own hope is mostly strangled by dread. It feels like a fool’s errand, trying to get pregnant. He can't help but think he's cursed in this regard. Why else would he have been pregnant twice before and have nothing to show for it? Deep down he's afraid that trying now at forty-four would be like tempting fate, afraid that he'll be smacked down for his hubris.

“Reckon I'll be nominated for a Golden Globe next month,” Harry murmurs. “My people ran a brilliant campaign for it.”

“Excellent,” Zayn says with great cheer in his voice. “For that Campbell miniseries?”

“That's the one.”

“Maybe another Emmy for you, too?”

“It came out too late in the year,” Harry says, rolling onto his back so he can look up at Zayn. “I dunno why. We wrapped it ages ago.”

“These British directors,” Zayn says, smiling fondly. “Take eight years to make one film. You should feel right at home with that, though.”

“Heyyy,” Harry says, slapping at him half-heartedly.

They smile at each other.

“Tomorrow,” Zayn says decisively. “We’ll both sit her down.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees.

 

KENSINGTON, JUNE 3, 2038

There's a small park near their house where they often take Cala, gated off from the street and lined by high hedges and rosebushes. She has several friends from the neighborhood who are often here at the same time, and Harry is a big hit amongst the other mums and dads. He often spends hours chatting away with them while she plays.

Zayn is a bit more standoffish, generally. Harry asked him why, once, nudging him and gently reminding him that the other parents are very nice people who would like to get to know him. He just shrugged and said something about how he isn’t used to being the same age as other parents, that he was so young and lonely when Mia was a kid that he always felt alienated from the sweet married mums and dads he met. Harry has since left him alone about it.

Today they take her there, but they stop her from running off to the monkey bars and bring her to a grassy hill toward the edge of the park. Zayn lays down a picnic blanket and Harry unpacks lunch from a bag he brought.

“Want some animal crackers?” he says.

Cala shakes her head.

“Alright,” Harry says amiably, and has a few himself. Zayn smiles at this as he sits down next to him.

“So, we'd like to discuss something with you as a family,” Harry says.

Cala is distracted by a moth that has landed on her shirt. Harry gently waves it away.

“We've talked before about you maybe gettin’ a sibling someday,” Zayn interjects.

Cala nods. “I want one,” she says. “I want somebody to play with. Am I getting one? Can I have a sister?”

They laugh.

“You _have_ a sister,” Zayn reminds her.

“She's old,” Cala says frankly.

“Old! How old d’you think she is?”

“Thirty?”

Harry tries to suppress his grin.

“Love, she's only twenty-two!”

“Ohh… I'm only six,” Cala points out, holding up six fingers. “Twenty-two is bigger than six.”

“Okay, fair point,” Zayn says. “This would be a very young sibling, who’d be a baby at first. But later on we might adopt another, and they'd be around your age, so you'd have someone closer to you, as well.”

“Why’ll it be a baby?” Cala says, squinting. “Where will you get a baby from?”

“Your dad and I might try to get pregnant,” Harry says. “Where you make a baby from scratch. You know how I mean?”

He knows that some of the mums and a few of the dads of other kids in her class have been intermittently pregnant over the past two years, so she's bound to at least have a limited understanding of this. And she does slowly nod in response, her brown eyes wide with curiosity despite the bright sunshine.

“Right,” Harry says. “So… c'mere, lovebug.”

She comes over to them and crawls into his lap. He wraps his arms around her.

“We’ll only do this if it's okay with you,” he murmurs. “This baby would look like us, and it'd sort of take up our attention when it's very new and needs us round the clock. But I don't want you to feel like that means we love you any less. We’ll always love you with our whole hearts.”

“Whole hearts?” she repeats.

“My entire heart,” Harry affirms. “Every inch of it. Every blood vessel. Every, erm, ventricle. I dunno. It's more of a metaphorical thing.”

Cala goes quiet, like she sometimes does. “So… I'm the big sister?”

“Aye, you'd be the big sister this time,” Zayn says, and he strokes her hair. She leans her head onto Harry’s shoulder.

“Cool,” Cala says. “Is it a little sister?”

“I'm not pregnant yet,” Harry murmurs. “But you'd be the first to know.”

Cala nods decisively. “I want a little sister.”

“It might be a little brother,” Harry says, laughing. “Which, as a little brother, I apologize about.”

“Try your best,” Cala says to him, which makes him happy, because it's something he says to her when she's mardy about her homework.

“So you want us to do that? You want us to make a baby from scratch?”

Cala shrugs and nods.

“D’you know how proud we are of you, how special you are to us?” Harry says to her.

“Yes,” she says softly.

“We'd need your help,” Zayn interjects. “Since you're a big girl, and the baby would just be a little helpless thing. We'd be a team, the three of us.”

Cala clearly likes this idea. It's a good way to frame it; Harry wonders if Zayn cribbed it from Louis and Liam.

“I want to help,” she says. “You should make a baby, and I'll help with it. I can dress it up and it can ride in my wagon.”

“It's a baby, not the dog,” Harry gently reminds her. They have a Pekingese named Boots that's technically hers, although Harry does all of the legwork with taking care of it. Zayn generally skives off, protesting that he has never wanted the dog in the first place. “Reminds me of that little thing me and Pez got together,” he always says.

“That's good,” Cala assures him. “‘Cos dogs don't like wearing clothes.”

“At least Boots doesn't,” Zayn says with a snort.

“Right... we should have named him Feets,” Harry says.

Zayn doesn't react to this, and Harry nudges him. “Feets. That was funny,” he says.

Zayn obediently lets out a very fake laugh. Harry flicks him on the arm as punishment, and turns back to their daughter.

“But it would grow up, the baby,” he continues, “and it would look like me and Zayn… is that okay?”

Cala nods, but she doesn't seem to be processing what he's getting at.

“You're sure?” Harry says, watching her face carefully.

“For fuck’s sake, Haz, you're gonna make a problem where there isn't one,” Zayn says, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Let her go play, yeah?”

Cala nods more eagerly in response to this. Harry lets her up.

“Stay close,” Harry says to her, and then inclines his head to the playground. She heads off.

“Oh,” Harry sighs, and lies down across the picnic blanket. Zayn cuddles up next to him, his face in the crook of Harry's neck, laying his hand across his stomach.

“We're getting so ahead of ourselves,” Harry says. “And now we've got her all excited. What if it doesn't happen?”

“Then we look into adoptin’ again,” Zayn says, his voice muffled. He kisses under Harry's ear. “Hey, it ain't all doom and gloom. Aren't you supposed to be Mr Pollyanna?”

“It's just that miscarriage,” Harry says, and then clears his throat. “It really… it scared the shit out of me. I don't know what I'd even do if that happened when I _knew_ there was a baby, when we'd planned it.”

“I know,” Zayn murmurs.

“Am I too old?”

"Reckon I heard about a bloke who had a baby at fifty recently,” Zayn says. “Think I saw that in the _Guardian.._.”

“Gross,” Harry says decidedly. “ _That's_ too old. I don't like that. No... forty-five is my absolute limit. And it's only because these eggs are a preserved twenty-six.” He pauses. “A freezer-burned twenty-six.”

“We could do a surrogate,” Zayn reminds him.

“If I miscarry,” Harry says.

“No, like, period.”

“Like I said, I'd like to try, first.”

“An’ I'd like you to try,” Zayn murmurs. “I'd like --”

He cuts himself off. Harry trails his hand through his dark hair, waiting.

“Um. I wanna do… shit I didn't get to do with Louis, or for Louis, with Yas,” Zayn says hesitantly. “Shit Louis didn't even want to do, neither. Lamaze classes, baby shower, all that shit.”

“Wait, Louis didn't do Lamaze?” Harry says, amazed. “And he had a natural labor? Christ.”

“Well, I mean, ‘e didn't plan that part,” Zayn says, laughing. “He was like, not into it at all. I remember he wanted general anesthetic, practically.”

Harry goes quiet.

“I’d want to do it naturally,” he says. “And, like… at home.”

Zayn nods, an indulgent smile on his lips. “We can talk about that later.”

“Zayn, I really do want to do it at home.”

“Figures.”

“I'm not _that_ crunchy,” Harry protests. “I just like my privacy.”

“Anyway, I want to do all that with you,” Zayn says, sitting up and resting his hands on the blanket, on either side of Harry's ribs. His hazel eyes are pretty in the sunlight. Harry gazes at his face. “I wanna… yeah, all that stuff. I want to be by your side when it's born. I want to be really hands-on.”

“I want you to be,” Harry says, reaching up and stroking his face. “I want you to be my partner. You _are_ my partner.”

Zayn smiles at him. Harry recognizes a certain glint in his eye; he wonders if they do manage to get pregnant, if Zayn will bring up marriage again. It's a conversation Harry’s always putting off.

“I want this to happen,” Zayn whispers. “Can we wish it into happenin’?”

“Loads of the things I wish for come true,” Harry says, grinning. “So... maybe.”

“You lead a charmed life.”

“Nooo… I'm careful, and I plan well.”

“That's ninety percent of it,” Zayn says. “But…” he tweaks Harry's nose. “You've got about ten percent fairy dust going on.”

“Well,” Harry demurs, and wiggles his shoulders.  “I dunno. I just... I really do want to have a baby."

They both look over at Cala at the same time. She's with her friends, but her tendency to hang back is evident; she seems solitary and singular even in a swirl of other kids.

Zayn, being a solitary animal himself, doesn't seem to think this is a problem as long as she's happy and has friends. But Harry keeps himself up at night wondering if that's just who she is, or if it's emotional trauma at work. The ingrained fear to connect for fear of having those connections jerked away.

He thinks for the first time that maybe this baby could be a healing force for their daughter, that unconditional love for and from someone new, someone as innocent and safe as a baby, could help knit the deeper parts of her that have been frayed by fear and uncertainty.

He ought to believe Zayn more, he knows. Zayn's been a parent for much longer than he has. Sometimes Harry forgets that Zayn didn’t start parenting Mia around the same time he came back into Harry's life, but that he was a dad long before then, too: through her infancy, her terrible twos, kindergarten, everything. He's done his share of parental worrying, he already knows how pointless most of it is.

And yet, Harry worries anyway. Some things are inevitable.

 

LONDON, JUNE 3, 2038

Mia sits through an entire mind-numbing two hour meeting with the entire staff of the stodgy old West London theatre she works at, and doesn't look at any technology once through the entire thing.

She rewards herself for this triumph by purchasing a cinnamon roll from the vending machine in the lobby. She watches with bleary eyes as it’s heated up in the machine’s microwave, and then as a robot arm sprays frosting over it generously.

Two hours, she thinks with disbelief as she makes her way back to her office, stirring her coffee while awkwardly balancing the roll in the crook of her elbow. Two hours and she didn't get called on a single time. No one even spoke to her.

“Being a marketing assistant is like being a janitor,” she had said to Louis last week. “They need you when they need you, and completely ignore you otherwise.”

“Oi, the melodrama,” Louis had exclaimed genially in response. The older she gets, the more he's bemused by her problems, which Mia can't blame him for. He’s never dealt with difficult professors, he never paid his dues in a menial job while trying to prove himself. His stress in his twenties was a much different animal.

He, Liam and Zayn hardly ever have any idea what she's talking about anymore. Zayn thinks he does, because he went back to school recently to study history, but she knows he really doesn't. And he only lasted one semester, anyway. It was one of his many quickly-adopted, quickly-abandoned midlife crisis projects.

Mia takes a seat in her office and starts flicking through her email with one lazy finger. She shares the space with an older woman, Karen, who works under the music director and is very shouty from symphony-induced hearing loss.

“Hey,” Karen says loudly. Mia winces. “Joe says we hardly sold any tickets for _Othello_ , what the fuck is that about?”

“Um,” Mia mutters, sipping her coffee. “People my age don't want to see _Othello_ , I guess?”

“Seriously? It's a bloody classic!”

“I work here and I don't even want to see it,” she says. “I told him if we had to do Shakespeare again this month, he ought to run a modern retelling of Macbeth.”

“Everyone does that!”

“Yeah, ‘cos it _works_.”

The rest of her day is another endless slog of updating social media and taking calls from the public and various numpty part-owners of the theater who all want a say in how the website is run. When she leaves work, it’s already nine -- too late for her to play even a quarter in the weekly football scrimmage she and her girlfriend are a part of.

It's how they met, actually; Mia plays defense, and she had collided with Shannon while trying to stop her driving on the goal. Mia went to help her to her feet, and noticed how attractive she was: bleached, short-cropped hair, liquid brown eyes, a septum piercing. They've been dating for six months, now.

Mia goes to the field anyway, and sits on the bleachers. It's a nice night, and they can walk home together, if nothing else. She sits with her messenger bag piled on her lap, considering possible plans for them tonight. Shannon darts around the field, her cheeky grin flashing in the dusk.

When the game ends, Shannon trails behind, chatting with their teammates on the field. Mia stares a hole in her. _Pay attention to me,_ she begs silently, needing it so badly that it's like a physical ache. She isn't sure why she's like this, but she can't ever seem to help it.

“Babe,” Shannon calls as she comes over. Mia sits up slowly, trying to play it cool.

“Hi,” she says.

Shannon ducks down and kisses her briefly on the mouth. “So,” she says. “How was work?”

“I mean… shitty,” Mia says. “It's always shitty.”

Shannon motions her up. “Let's walk.”

Mia gets to her feet. They trudge along in the wet grass together. Some of her teammates call to her, asking why she didn't come play tonight, and she dejectedly calls back that work ran late.

“Denise was asking after you,” Shannon says with amusement, when they're out of earshot.

“Ugh,” Mia mutters.

“I swear she has a crush.”

Mia doesn't like the cavalier way Shannon says this, like she's not jealous or threatened in the least. “That crush is not reciprocated.”

“She's got a bad case of baby-voice.”

“She's got a bad case of thinking anyone cares about her stupid job at Number Ten,” Mia says nastily, and immediately regrets it.

“Ooh, somebody's jealous,” Shannon teases.

They begin up the stairs to the London sidewalk, and then step out into the crowd. Shannon wraps her arm around Mia’s shoulders, which makes her feel somewhat better.

“Not jealous,” Mia protests. “She only got that job ‘cos of her mum.”

“You could do the same thing with acting, you know. If you really do want to be a director. Your step-dad is like, the second coming of Ian McKellen, everyone loves him.”

“I want to do it on my own,” Mia insists. “It doesn't _mean_ anything, if they help me.”

“Well, alright.”

“And he isn't my step-anything, they aren't married.”

“Still?”

“Not married, don't plan to be,” Mia says, and then to change the subject: “So… what do you want to do tonight?”

Shannon chews on her bottom lip. Mia watches her face.

“Got plans tonight, actually,” she says, sheepish.

“Really?”

“I'm sorry, Mimi, it's my uni friends, I hardly see them…”

“I mean… fine,” Mia says, nettled. “It's just I didn't make any plans, ‘cos I assumed I'd be with you.”

“It isn't too late,” Shannon says, pulling her to the side to avoid a mum with a buggy. “Make some of your own.”

“I don't want plans, though,” Mia says. “I want to hang with you.”

Shannon stops in the middle of the sidewalk and sighs. Passerby walk around them and push past them, annoyed. The sun has gone down over the Thames, and it's growing a little chilly. Mia folds her arms.

“Fine,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek. “I mean, go, have fun.”

Shannon runs her fingers through her light hair. “I don't _have_ to.”

“No, go,” Mia says. She's angry because this is a recurring habit of Shannon’s, to leave her home alone with nothing to do, or to leave her out of things, but each time it happens she acts as if Mia is overreacting to a one-time incident.

“Hey...”

“Go, I'm fine,” Mia says, and plasters on a smile. “I'll clean my flat and work on my daybook.”

Shannon squints at her. “You're sure.”

“Yes!”

“Alright…”

They start on their way again. Shannon's arm returns to her shoulder, except this time Mia doesn't want it there. After a minute or so of tension, Shannon separates from her, and they walk to the Tube side by side in silence.

 

LONDON, JUNE 8, 2038

Zayn leaves the facility's designated masturbation room wiping his hands on a paper towel, and rather sheepishly hands his capped-off sperm sample to the waiting nurse. They need a sample to test for motility before they get the sample they'll actually use to fertilize Harry’s eggs, so he's going to have to jerk off here not once but twice.

Harry takes the piss out of him for this, until they step into one of the gynecological suites and the same nurse explains to him that he must change into a paper gown and get up in the horrid chair with the stirrups on it.

Zayn is too kind to laugh openly about this, but he definitely chuckles under his breath, which Harry glares at him for.

“This whole process is a bit medieval,” Harry says, when he's settled in.

Zayn drags a chair over so he can sit next to him. “Agreed, mate.”

“D’you think they'll stick a speculum up in me?”

“They can't still use _speculums_ ,” Zayn says in horror.

“I reckon they might,” Harry says.

He doesn't mind, much; he's very zen right now and successfully staying in the moment.

“Mr Styles!” the gyno booms as he hustles into the room, smiling. Harry tries to sit up on the weird chair, making the paper loudly crinkle, but the doctor just laughs and leans over him to shake his hand.

“I’m Dr Toynbee,” he says. “Goodness, this is exciting. I told my sister this morning -- she just _loves_ you -- I said, do you know who I'm trying to impregnate now? Our very own Harry Styles! A national treasure!”

“That's very kind of you,” Harry demurs, feeling weird about all this praise from a bloke who's about to have his head down his nethers.

Zayn shifts in his chair.

“This is Zayn, my…” Harry gestures to him. “Um… my gentleman caller?”

Zayn snorts. “Hilarious.”

“My intended? My better half?”

“Your worse half, maybe.”

Harry snorts. “Anyway,” he says. “You get it.”

“So you two aren't married yet, correct?” Toynbee says, as he fiddles with some frighteningly high-tech instruments. He picks up a small round object that glows and buzzes. Harry stares at it.

“No,” Zayn says.

“That's alright,” the doctor says cheerfully. “Hardly anyone is anymore. I'm not. Never wanted kids of my own, either. I'm an omega as well, but it's a turn-off, seeing how the sausage is made.”

“I'm sure,” Harry says.

“Do you mind if I get started, here?”

“Not at all, go for it.”

“One thing that always gave me pause -- do you know we used to die in absurd numbers during childbirth?” Toynbee says, lifting Harry's gown. Harry politely looks at the ceiling. “Narrower hips than women, and all the testosterone makes us more prone to abruptions. In Victoria’s age, it became in vogue again for alpha men to take us as mistresses, but birth control was frowned upon -- really just a _bloodbath_. If you read the medical literature from back then, it's quite sickening stuff. I did my thesis on it.” He sniffs. “Thank God for modern medicine. Still, not a pleasant thought.”

Zayn is staring at the top of the doctor’s head in acute horror.

“You'll be fine, of course!” Toynbee exclaims. Harry feels something cold press against his taint and makes a face. “This is that little sphere you saw… I just hold it here against the birth canal, and…”

He waves the wrist that his watch is on, and the hologram generator sitting on a table opposite them beeps to life, displaying a fuzzy three-dimensional image that steadily grows clearer.

“It sends out an echo, to read what your organs look like and display what it finds,” the doctor says, and pops his head up. “So, there's your uterus.”

The figure crisps up, and sure enough, there are half of his reproductive organs, to scale. They hover there in the air. Harry feels funny looking at this, like he isn't supposed to.

Zayn reaches his hand out and swipes a finger through Harry’s ovary.

“Get out of there!” Harry whispers, laughing. Zayn grins at him.

“So while I explore, here,” Toynbee says, tilting the ball to and fro. The uterus tilts in tandem. “Let me tell you about your eggs… which I looked at just this morning.”

Harry has a sinking sensation in his chest. “Are they alright?”

“Yes,” the doctor assures him. “They look lovely, very well-preserved. Could be implanted tomorrow. We’ll put you on a round of hormones first, though… you're no spring chicken, although the science is marvelous these days. And it's the eggs, really, that are the important part. You were smart to save some. Planning a family far ahead like that is key nowadays, and so few people do it.”

“Fairy dust,” Harry mouths at Zayn, and sticks his tongue out at him. Zayn smiles.

“Uterus and birth canal look excellent, as well,” Toynbee comment. “You're in very good shape, here.”

“I work out a lot,” Harry jokes.

He laughs. “Not that sort of shape. A great deal of this is genetic, actually.”

“Cheers, Anne,” Zayn says. “Good lookin’ out.”

He's being cheeky and a tad insincere. Anne has had a difficult time warming back up to Zayn over the years. Harry hasn't told her they're trying for a baby; he reckons he might as well not tell people until it's happening.

He thinks she'll be delighted, though. She adores Cala. Their daughter and the two sons Gemma has with her husband are the great joy of her life.

Harry often has them all over, and Zayn will chat with the adults while he plays in the hedgerows with Leo, Alfie and Cala, acting as the wise wizard or the stern schoolteacher in their games of pretend.

“Well,” Toynbee says, flicking the device off and setting it aside, then snapping his gloves off. “I don't see any reason you shouldn't theoretically be able to conceive, if we take our standard abundance of caution with the process. I can't make any promises, of course.”

“That doesn't sound very confident, mate,” Zayn comments. Harry reaches over and squeezes his hand.

“For me, it's _very_ confident,” the doctor says primly. “And I take the business of getting Harry Styles pregnant very seriously. We won't have a new royal baby for at least five or so years. Britain needs this.”

“I don't think I'm really all _that_ important,” Harry says, bemused.

Toynbee smiles. “That's why we like you!”

Harry laughs.

“Alright, let me go get you a prescription for your hormone supplements. You'll take it easy for three weeks, take these twice a day, and then come back in for implantation when you've taken the last dose. They'll make you a bit nauseated, cranky, bloated, and possibly itchy.”

“ _Itchy_?” Harry laughs. “... Where?”

“Um, it really depends.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Yes. But that's all a good practice run for pregnancy, really.”

Harry feels a warm clutch in his chest at the word pregnancy. He might really have Zayn’s baby. Twenty-eight years after they first met, twenty-six after they first kissed.

He turns to Zayn, smiling, and finds Zayn is smiling as well. Harry beckons him close.

“Is this real?” Zayn whispers, as Harry kisses all over his face and cheeks. “Seriously doesn't even feel real, honestly. I thought Yas was it for me.”

“I know,” Harry says warmly.

The doctor waits patiently for them to finish, and then clears his throat softly.

“I just wanted to clarify,” he says. “You said on your intake sheet you'd had a prior miscarriage.”

Harry's heart sinks. He slides an arm around Zayn's shoulders. Zayn glances at him.

“Right,” he says. “Um, I've been pregnant twice before. I had an abortion at twenty-five and a miscarriage at forty.”

“Alright,” Toynbee says. “And… were either of those with Zayn?”

“The abortion was with a different partner,” Harry says, his voice pleasant and unwavering. He doesn't feel these hurts much these days; he's gotten so good at pushing them down. “But I lost me and Zayn's baby, yeah.”

“Had you been trying to get pregnant?”

“No, it wasn't planned,” Harry murmurs. “We were in the process of adopting our daughter, we were traveling a lot, I was really stressed. The doctor I saw said I was just around ten weeks.” He hesitates. “I had a D and C. I dunno if that matters...”

“I'm sorry to hear about that,” Toynbee says, smiling gently at him. “I only ask because it's a good sign that you got pregnant with Zayn before, but a bad one that you miscarried. So these are things we need to know.”

Harry strokes Zayn's bicep. “I understand,” he says.

Zayn looks at him and gives a soft sigh. Harry smiles at him and chucks him under the chin.

 

KENSINGTON, JUNE 13, 2038

“Harry… Get up, c’mon…”

For the first time in decades, Harry rolls over and pulls his pillow over his head like he's a little boy. “Stop,” he snaps, through a haze of nausea and irritation. “Leave me alone.”

His head pounds as he lies there, cheek pressed to the bedspread. He hears Zayn’s footsteps walking around the bed, and then Zayn nudges him on the bicep. He flinches.

“Drink,” Zayn says, lifting the edge of the pillow and handing Harry a glass that he's presumably dissolved some pills into. Harry drinks it, because he's dutiful like that, and then buries his head under the pillow again.

Zayn's footsteps mercifully go out into the hall, and then very unfortunately return, this time matched by Cala’s much smaller ones.

Cala climbs up onto the bed. She pulls the pillow away, starts petting his hair, and then begins to braid it. Through his fog, he chuckles fondly.

“Daddy’s not feeling well,” Zayn whispers.

“Is he sick?”

“He's sort of sick.”

“Daddy doesn't get sick,” Cala says.

“Not often, no. He takes good care of himself,” Zayn says. “Unlike me.”

“You've gotten better since we've been together,” Harry mumbles, his voice muffled against the bed.

“Oi, he speaks!”

“No, I'm not really awake, please don't talk to me.”

“But you _have_ to get up. You make the best pancakes,” Cala says, patting him very insistently on the back.

Harry laughs, which makes his head hurt more.

“What's the problem, love?” Zayn says, reaching down and squeezing his calf muscle.

Whatever Zayn gave him is already working, and he feels a bit less hellish, so Harry lifts his head and begins ticking off on his fingers.

“Nausea,” he says. “Headache, although that might be ‘cos I feel bloated and had to sleep on my back. Which brings us to the fact that I’m bloated, and also cranky.”

“You know what,” Zayn says, not unkindly. “I reckon you're sort of bein’ a big baby.”

Harry tosses a pillow at him. It bounces off his chest.

“What's with you and throwin’ shit at me!” Zayn splutters.

“Don't swear in front of our daughter,” Harry admonishes, even though Cala looks amused by all of this. She thinks it's funny when they argue.

“She's got to get used to that,” Zayn says. “‘Cos it'll just get worse into me elderly years.”

He comes close and collapses onto the bed, gently tackling Cala against Harry and wrapping them both up in his arms. Cala giggles.

“Anyway, sorry you feel lousy, Haz,” Zayn whispers in his ear.

“It's alright,” Harry murmurs back. “All for a good cause, right?”

Zayn kisses his cheek. “Yeah.”

 

*

 

“Hello?” says Carly, Louis’ assistant.

Liam is surprised and disappointed to have reached her. “Hi, it's Liam. Is Louis out of pocket?”

“Yes, he is, I'm sorry. He just went into a meeting. Can I take a message?”

Tell him his husband misses him, Liam would like to say to her. Tell him his husband is tired of a dry peck on the cheek in the morning, and remind him how long it's been since we last had sex. Tell him I'm planning to make dinner that'll be cold by the time he gets home. Remind him our anniversary is coming up and we haven't planned a thing.

Remind him I pulled back at work to spend more time with him, and now I just putter around in our giant house, alone, because he wouldn't do the same for me.

“No,” Liam says. “That's alright.”

“Would you like him to know you called?”

He hesitates.

“No,” he finally says.

They hang up and Liam sits in front of his computer. A three-sixty display surrounds him, showing the contents of a folder filled with half-finished backing tracks he can't get the inspiration to continue work on. He raises his hand and lazily swipes through them, listening to brief snippets and waiting for one to strike his fancy, but none do.

The most hurtful part is that Louis doesn't seem to think anything is wrong. For Louis, it's business as usual, which only hurts Liam more. He feels he shouldn't have to say anything about this, that Louis should just read his mind, should come home with a bouquet of roses and whisper _sorry, sorry_ in his ear, kiss him and take him to bed.

He keeps waiting for that. It keeps not coming.

 

LONDON, JUNE 29, 2038

Zayn holds Harry’s hand very tightly up to the very moment they take him back.

“You know, it's a very short procedure,” Harry assures him. “I'll be alright. You could even come along if you like.”

Zayn makes a face. “I'm good.”

“You don't want to watch your boyfriend get inseminated like a horse?” Harry teases.

Zayn twitches at the word boyfriend. He hates it, how youthful and unserious it sounds. He thinks once again of the engagement band he's been hiding in his car for over a year now.

As a nurse swabs Harry’s arm to slip his IV in for his pain meds, he says with a smile, “I've just realized something… your forty-five year old sperm fertilized my twenty-six year old eggs. You're an old creep.”

“Am not,” Zayn protests.

Harry grins up at him. His smile is still dazzling after all these years. “Old man with your salt and pepper hair, impregnating my twenty-something eggs.”

“You've gone off it,” Zayn informs him, but he's laughing.

They take him back, then, in his paper gown that exposes his cute little arse. He's taller than each of the nurses who help him, and he wraps his arms around both their shoulders, charming them in a quiet enough voice that Zayn can't hear what he's saying. They titter gaily in response.

“Oi,” Zayn hollers after him. “Good luck in there!”

“Don't wait up,” Harry calls over his shoulder, winking theatrically.

“What are you _saying_ , mate? It's only a half-hour, I'll be out here the whole time.”

“Dunno what I'm saying, actually!” Harry yells. “I like these drugs!”

The nurses laugh harder, and then they all vanish behind the doors to the surgical center.

Zayn heads back to the waiting room, puts his feet up on the coffee table and picks up a magazine. He can't help wanting a smoke.

 

*

 

Harry wakes up slowly. There's soft chatter down the hall that sounds much louder than it is, and even the soft hazy lighting of the recovery room hurts his eyes.

“Hey, sleepy-head,” Toynbee says, jostling him. He inhales and sits up somewhat on the pillows.

The doctor is hovering over him, smiling.

“How long’ve I been out?” Harry says woozily.

Toynbee shrugs. “Ten for the procedure, fifteen after? Not too bad. You know, we could have given you a local.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I just didn't want to see you fussing around down there. I like to at least pretend I've got some privacy in this.”

The doctor laughs at this, though he wasn't trying to be humorous. Sometimes he sounds like he is, even when he isn't.

“So… we were quite successful, I'd say, Mr Styles.”

Harry's heart leaps. “Really?”

Toynbee squeezes his arm. “Yes. Not that I had any doubts. Because of your age and your prior miscarriage, we transplanted three embryos, as we discussed. And all three went in just fine. Already two weeks old, so the perfect age to really…” he gestures. “Burrow right into your uterus. Like little hermit crabs.”

Harry politely ignores this upsetting simile. “So if everything goes perfectly, you've put triplets in me?”

“Well, Murphy’s law, right?” The doctor smiles at him. “I doubt all three will implant. Likely one, maybe two. Is twins alright?”

“Not exactly ideal, at our age, but I'll take what I can get,” Harry says softly, fiddling with the pulse ox on his finger. “And I love babies, so…”

“Good!” Toynbee claps him on the shoulder. “The more the merrier?”

“The more the merrier!”

“I'll bring your man back here, then?”

“Yes, please.”

When Zayn comes back, it looks like he may have nodded off himself; his dark eyes are sleepy and his hair and collar are mussed. He lights up when he sees Harry, and comes over to kiss him on the forehead. Harry slides his hands up Zayn’s neck, stroking his jaw with his thumbs.

Toynbee smiles at them.

“So how'd it go?” Zayn murmurs, drawing back.

“Good,” Harry assures him. “Doctor’s pretty confident…”

“Yes, I certainly am. If I don't get a baby into your arms in the next year, your money back guaranteed,” Toynbee intones. “No, just a little joke, you pay us either way. But I am confident, yes.”

Zayn laughs in a breathless, boyish way. Harry tugs him closer, pressing his face to the warmth of Zayn's neck, where his pulse eagerly flutters.

 

*

 

His good mood lasts until they pick up their daughter from Gemma’s place, and Gemma takes him aside.

“You need to stop giving Cala everything she wants,” she says firmly.

Harry stares at her in surprise. She pulled him out the kitchen door to the back porch; just feet away, Gemma’s husband Andrew and Zayn are chatting. Andrew sips a stout beer while Zayn has a glass of water.

“I don't,” he says. “I don't -- I have rules.”

“Oh, Harry -- look, she might be better behaved when she's with you because you dote on her, and because she's a sweet girl by nature, but you know what? She's so used to your lenience that as soon as _I_ say no to her, she becomes a nightmare.”

“That isn't true,” he says hotly, his cheeks heating up.

“It is,” Gemma says, folding her arms. “I'm not criticizing you --”

“You are,” Harry says, and glances down at his feet. His nerves are already raw, and he knows this conversation is probably overdue, but all he wants to do is go home and be with his family.

“I understand _why_ you fuss over her, but it's going to be bad for her in the long run.”

“I know,” Harry snaps. “I know I'm shit at discipline. That's why Zayn usually does it.”

“But that's not how it works!” Gemma says, waving her hands emphatically. “You've both got to do it, Harry, or she’ll just learn to play you off each other!”

“This is coming out of absolutely nowhere,” Harry exclaims.

“It's coming after two years of the same behavior! She threw _three_ tantrums today, each after I wouldn't let her get her own way,” Gemma says sternly, looking him hard in the eye. “And it comes after the fact that you're probably going to have another baby, so parenting is relevant right now --”

Harry slides his hands into his pockets.

“I know you feel terrible about all that's happened to her,” Gemma says gently. “But come on, Harry. C’mon, kiddo. You adopted her, you brought her into a life of unimaginable privilege and opportunity. You don't get to be the good guy forever. One day someone big in her life who doesn't care about her feelings is going to say no to her, and she needs to be ready to hear it. That's your job as a parent. No matter how many awful things she's been through. You're still allowed to say no. You're _supposed_ to say no, sometimes. You're doing her a favor in life, for God’s sake.”

“You're right about that part,” Harry mutters. “It's just hard for me.”

“If for no one else, do it for that possible baby in you,” she says. “So she doesn't run roughshod over it.”

“But _she's_ my baby, too…”

Gemma wraps him in a hug. “She’s growing up now, angel.”

“I know,” Harry whispers. “I know. I know. I need to get tougher on her. She's really normally so sweet, she just gets frustrated easily… probably ‘cos I always try to stop anything from happening that would frustrate her,” he adds with a rueful laugh.

“You know what I think? I think Louis is right. I think you ought to get her on a sports team. Sports would be good for her.”

Harry grimaces at _Louis was right_. It's petty and stubborn, but he doesn't like that Louis has nearly twenty years of parenting experience on him, or that Louis is still a co-parent with Zayn.

“I'll think about it,” he says.

“Don't think about it, do it.”

“Alright,” he acquiesces. “You do realize you're running roughshod over _me_ , right now?”

“Right, but you aren't a baby, are you?”

“Maybe I am,” Harry says, smiling. “I'm still your baby brother, aren't I?”

She kisses him on the cheek. “Hmm, nice try, you'll be forty-five next year.”

“Please don't say an awful thing like that out loud.”

“Forty-five! Forty-five!”

“I beg you,” Harry exclaims.

Gemma dances away toward the house, continuing to taunt him cheerfully. He chases after her, laughing.

 

*

 

Mia comes by that evening to hang out with Cala. She seems gloomy, giving one-word answers to the small talk they make with her. Cala is engrossed in a VR game, and Mia sits next to her, her knees pulled to her chest and her chin resting on them like she's a little kid. The two of them look small in the tall-ceilinged, dark-walled sitting room.

Zayn takes Harry aside in the kitchen and asks if they should tell her.

“No, no,” Harry says, looking at him quizzically. “We don't even know I'm going to get pregnant. Even if I do, let’s wait until the second trimester, please.”

“She's going to get mad at me,” Zayn informs him. “She's gonna get in a strop just like ‘er dad does. _No one tells me anything,_ that whole drill.”

“Then be a parent about it,” Harry says mildly. “She's an adult.”

Zayn draws back. “Chilly, Styles.”

“Sorry,” he replies, not feeling very sorry. Nothing he said was untrue.

Zayn sighs and goes in the walk-in pantry, rummaging around for something. Harry follows him and stands in the doorway with his arms folded.

“She can't take us not telling her personally,” he says, “if we aren't telling _anyone_.”

“Look, she's havin’ a hard time lately,” Zayn says. “She's got the twenty-two year old blues.”

“I get it,” Harry says. “It's just this is our life, you and me and our daughter.”

“It's fine, Haz, we won't tell her,” Zayn says, fetching a bag of basmati rice and coming back out of the pantry, touching Harry gently on the hip to move him as he does. “I'm being silly.”

Harry feels shitty, now. “Not silly,” he says. “Just overprotective.”

“Same deal,” Zayn says.

“I'll go check on them,” Harry says, and goes down the hall to the sitting room, where Cala is walking around with a VR headset, making wild gestures and occasionally bumping into the coffee table.

“She's on the ISS, fighting aliens,” Mia says with a slight smile. She's engrossed in reading her texts on her watch.

Harry comes over and sits behind her on the couch, sprawling out. He's still somewhat sore from the procedure, and uncomfortable from the hormones. “How's work been?”

“Oh, God,” Mia says, theatrically flinging herself onto the carpet and looking at the ceiling. “So stupid. So bad. So boring.”

“How's the girlfriend?”

“I take the fifth,” Mia says, rubbing her eyes.

“So no good all around?”

“Nope.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It's alright,” Mia mutters.

“Is Oliver still at rugby camp?”

“Yeah.” She holds up two fingers. “Two more days.”

“Are you going over to theirs tonight?”

“Probably, but I doubt my dad’ll be home before eleven,” she says. “Mostly these past couple weeks, me and Liam just hang out and watch old movies.”

“That sounds nice,” Harry says. “I should join you sometime.”

Mia yawns. “You're welcome to.”

Cala shrieks, then, and tears the VR goggles off. She tosses them to the ground.

“Don't throw things,” Harry says, not very passionately.

“They got me,” she says, upset, and comes over to him, crawling under the crook of his arm.

“That seems like a dark game for six-year-olds to be playing,” he comments, squeezing her.

“Everything's like that, now,” Mia says, rubbing her eyes. “Crap world we live in.”

 

LONDON, JULY 10, 2038

Harry tries to keep his mind off the potential baby inside him. He’s still bloated, now with cramps and twinges. He goes about his life, getting scripts from agents that he earmarks for 2039 and sets aside, pulling strings in the publishing world to get someone to give Zayn another book deal (Zayn burned a lot of bridges for himself five years ago, when he'd kept promising pages of his memoirs that he never delivered -- he'd finally scrapped the project out of anxiety and broke his contract, infuriating Gallery Books and getting him put on an industry-wide blacklist) and trying to find a sports team for Cala to join.

Harry realizes, with resignation, that it would be easiest for her to just play footie like everyone else her age does. This feels to him like capitulating to Louis, who suggested this exact thing to Zayn ages ago.

On the face of it, he doesn't mind listening to Louis, who has parented for much longer than he has. He just wishes Zayn didn't so wholeheartedly endorse his opinions. For years now, Louis and Zayn have gotten on like gangbusters, obviously thinking of each other as a sort of relief valve from their long-term relationships. Zayn defends this dynamic by pointing out that Harry has his own close friends, some of whom he's had relationships with.

And of course he does, but he doesn't have a _child_ with any of them. He never went to rehab because one of them broke his heart so badly he couldn't function.

He and Liam bitch about this occasionally to each other, that Louis and Zayn’s bond can sometimes be annoying, that they're the more steady one in each of their relationships and so can fall into the trap of being the ball and chain.

Harry's annoyance this afternoon is probably mostly down to the fact that he's alone at a parent-teacher conference today. He doesn't like to go to these alone, and he can't remember the last time he had to. But Zayn skived off to have a meeting with his agent about how he should best move forward, career-wise.

“I could come,” Zayn had said this morning, standing behind him as he got ready and kissing up the back of his neck.

“No, it's alright,” Harry assured him. “Take your meeting.”

Zayn hasn't worked steadily in years now. He's been Cala’s primary caregiver since they adopted her, and in between, he does a lot of writing and takes a lot of meetings. Neither of those things ever seem to go anywhere anymore.

Harry hates to ever feel impatient with him about this; after all, he’s put out seven solo albums, most of which did fairly well. He was still touring up until Mia was around sixteen, at which point he stopped in order to spent more time with her. He’s finished his memoirs, for real this time, and is slowly editing them while considering just self-publishing them like he did with his other book -- a roman à clef about life in the band that Harry, Niall and Louis had once gone into fits of hysterical laughter over as they read excerpts out of it to each other and shared an entire bottle of wine.

(Liam refused to participate and sternly told them that they were “being mean”, but Louis said he later found a copy of the book in Liam’s Kindle that had been highlighted to hell and back, and most of the highlights were tagged with comments like “???? THIS NEVER EVEN HAPPENED?”)

But Zayn is all but retired from music, and he doesn't get published often enough to be a writer. He goes to AA meetings twice a week whether he needs it or not, and is usually sponsoring a few young alcoholics at a time. He drinks a lot of coffee, smokes his fake cigarettes and goes to the mosque with Mia and Cala most Fridays.

He had recently fiddled around with the idea of becoming a full-time producer, and shadowed Liam at work for a few weeks before he came home and pronounced to Harry that he wouldn't be able to be the bedrock of someone else's success and talent. Harry, normally very easygoing, had found this vexing enough to loudly sigh at him. 

“We honestly have the opposite problem,” Liam told Harry recently. “Mine works too much and yours doesn't work enough.”

One of the benefits of a new baby, Harry knows, is it'll give Zayn a project to direct and drive him. Zayn is already a dutiful stay-at-home dad to Cala, allowing Harry to keep teaching acting classes and shoot a few highbrow dramas for the BBC. Zayn isn't good with unstructured free time; he's most productive when he's got something hanging over his head. Harry expects that the double crush of having a toddler and a kid to run after all day will get his creative juices flowing again.

Harry's just actually got to get pregnant first. But, as he keeps reminding himself, he can't think of it like that.

He sits in the car for a few minutes after he arrives at her prep school. He's always early to things like this.

He lays his hands over his stomach, squinting at the dashboard, trying to figure out if he feels any differently at all. There's three days left until he can test. It feels ridiculous to even be thinking this way; the fetus is microscopic, if there is one. Just a tiny little sea creature inside of him, or maybe two or three. He can't really get used to the concept yet; he's so afraid that there's nothing there, or that it'll vanish in an instant.

Harry gets out of the car, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. A mum he knows, Pippa, is heading out as he walks in. He taps her on the shoulder, and she gasps in delight and brings him in for a hug.

“I feel like I haven't seen you in forever!” she exclaims.

“Zayn's been doing most of the drop-offs and pick-ups,” he says, smiling. The nausea from the hormones made sitting in traffic a no-go for a while. “How'd your meeting go?”

Pippa rolls her eyes. “Awful. She's in quite a foul mood. I'd be careful.”

“Oh no,” Harry says, crestfallen. “I was hoping to have a good chat with her…”

“Well, you may just. I mean, she likes you more than she does me, I think. But she's fed up with all of our kids, that's for sure.” Pippa folds her arms. “‘Most difficult class I've had in years!’ All that melodramatic shite. So watch your step, is all.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Harry says, squeezing her shoulder, and then waves as he heads deeper into the school.

He likes it here, with its glistening floors and modern architecture, student art covering the walls and the laughter of children sounding out often during class hours. They get an hour of recess a day, which is one of the reasons Harry lobbied for it hard when they were looking at schools.

Harry peeks his head in the open door and knocks. Miss Sheila looks up from her papers and smiles at him.

“Mr Styles!” she says cheerily. “Come on in! I wasn't expecting you for a few.”

“Sorry, I can wait if you like...”

“No, no, please sit.”

Harry drags a desk made for a first grader over to her desk and perches atop it, crossing one leg over the other. “So how’s my girl?” he says.

Sheila gives him a smile that doesn’t involve her eyes. He steels himself.

“Here’s a drawing she did last week, to start us off lightly,” she says, and hands him a very cute drawing of herself and three of her friends from class. It says something in Arabic.

“What’s the writing?” he says, squinting.

“Just ‘friends’, apparently. But that speaks to something I wanted to discuss with you.”

She takes a moment to rather loudly blow her nose. Harry watches her apprehensively.

“She’s clearly done very well adjusting to English, verbally,” Sheila says. “But getting her to write in it is different.”

“That’s our fault,” Harry says. “When we adopted her she only spoke Arabic and some Hebrew… we had to learn so we could transition her to English, but Zayn wanted to read to her, so he learned, and that was the alphabet he taught her. And I’ve taught her a little Hebrew, but --”

“I do understand,” Sheila says. “But do you encourage reading in English at home?”

“Well,” Harry says, at a loss. “She’s not really strong enough on the English alphabet yet. I mean, with all due respect, isn’t that sort of your job to shore her up there?”

“It isn’t _just_ my job.” Sheila sniffles. She must be coming down with something. “Look,” she says gently, lowering her voice. “I understand you may be in a position where you feel you need to overcompensate with her --”

Harry laughs. “Overcompensate? Why?”

“Well…” she trails off.

Harry hits her with a hard look. “Why would I overcompensate?”

Sheila puts her hands up. “I value my good relationship with certain parents,” she says. “You’re one of them. So please don’t misunderstand or take this the wrong way.”

“Dunno how I could be taking that the wrong way,” he says, smiling placidly. He really wishes Zayn were here.

“Moving on,” Sheila says, clearing her throat. “She seems somewhat withdrawn and distracted during activities. I’ve told you before this is a recurring problem, keeping her engaged with her peers.”

Harry bristles further. “And I've told you before that you’ll have to be more patient with her than you are with the other kids,” he says. “That’s just a fact. She’s working through a lot, she’s adjusting. And she’s very intelligent, isn’t she? Good with history, and geography, and figures?”

“She is, yes.”

“Well, maybe she’s like, behind emotionally and ahead mentally, then.”

“You’ve had her for how long, now? Four years? Three and a half?”

Harry stands up, towering tall over the desk. Sheila immediately looks apologetic.

“I’m not criticizing your parenting,” she says.

“I believe that you think you aren’t,” he says coolly. “But I don’t think this is a particularly productive conversation.”

He begins to walk toward the door.

“Look,” she exclaims, and he turns back to her. “This has been a very difficult year in terms of classroom management. If I could get everyone’s students more engaged before we have our August break, I think Year Two will go much more smoothly --”

“Cala will progress on her own time and in her own way. It isn’t like she’s disruptive or disrespectful,” Harry says, and then, sounding very much unlike himself, adds, “When you teach at a posh private school, you ought to expect some of the kids will be spoiled and difficult to manage. You shouldn’t go after the kids who have good reason to be difficult and go after their parents with unpleasant implications about adoption.”

“Excuse me,” Sheila exclaims. “I didn't mean to imply anything about adoption!”

“Then maybe watch what you say,” Harry says. He’s in rare form, speaking his mind in a way he never does, trembling a bit with the force of his annoyance and protectiveness.

“I apologize if I offended you,” she says, clearly afraid of him -- of his fame, his money, his power. He suddenly feels terribly guilty for wielding it that way.

Harry runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking.

“Let's continue this talk later,” Sheila says. “You're upset, clearly. No use discussing this when tensions are high.”

“Can you do me a favor?” he says, much more friendly, so she knows a ceasefire has been called. “Can you email me a list of junior football teams I could possibly get her onto?”

Sheila nods profusely. He thanks her and goes on his way, down the long quiet hall and into the warm sunshine. He ended their meeting so early, the next parent isn’t even here yet.

 

KENSINGTON, JULY 14, 2038

“I don't have to wee right now,” Harry insists.

“Why didn't you do it when you first woke up this mornin’?” Zayn exclaims, theatrically collapsing back in his chair with frustration. Harry looks over at him from where he's cooking eggs at the stove.

“Because I was totally out of it and I forgot we could test today,” he says. “And then when I had to go again, you were taking the kid to school, and I didn't feel like holding it.”

He situates the pan, hits a button to scramble the eggs and comes to sit beside Zayn at the breakfast nook table. He much prefers this to the dining room table; where the dining room is a grim tableau of mirrors, dark wood and maroon wallpaper, the breakfast nook is a cheery and sunny little corner under the skylight that Harry has complete control over. He even put up Martinique banana leaf wallpaper.

Zayn stretches his hands out and takes Harry’s in his. “Why do I feel like you're afraid to find out?” he says, looking Harry sympathetically in the eye.

Harry sags a little. He pulls his hands away, folds his arms on the table and rests his chin on them.

“Because I am,” he says with a rueful laugh.

“The sooner we know, the sooner we can try again if we need to.”

“But I dunno how many times I want to try,” Harry says, looking into Zayn's dark eyes. “I don't want to put us through that over and over.”

“Surrogate,” Zayn suggests.

The teakettle goes off. Harry gets up and tends to it, to avoid the conversation.

“Your eggs are done,” he points out.

Zayn comes up behind him, slipping his arms around his waist and holding him close, kissing the nape of his neck.

“Let's do it now,” he says softly against Harry’s shoulder. His breath is warm and his arms are comforting.

Harry slips out of them and turns around to face him. Zayn’s always a sight, now: regal in his older handsomeness, and he's begun to dress differently, foregoing the flashy earrings and leather for more understated but brilliantly tailored clothes and the jewelry choices of an older mobster.

Zayn cages him in with his arms, both of them pressed to the sides of Harry’s trim waist. “Babe,” he says plaintively, gazing up at Harry with his warm, sleepy eyes. “Let's just do it, like. We've came this far. Got to know at some point, don't we?”

“What if we didn't find out,” Harry says, wild-eyed, carried away on a flight of romantic fancy. “What if we just didn't find out, and we went away on holiday somewhere, and we didn't even know for sure until I got a tummy, and I just had the baby on Turks and Caicos. Wouldn't that be so much better?”

“That would be bonkers,” Zayn says sternly. “You need regular doctor’s visits. Come, love, don't make me be the sane one, I hate it.”

Zayn takes him by the hand and leads him to the bathroom, where the tests lay on the counter. Harry is terrified to use one. They tell you the answer in about fifteen seconds flat, now; once you’ve pulled the trigger, there’s no time to run and hide. Years ago when Xavier had knocked him up, he'd had plenty of time to pace around and think while he held the test in his hand, shaking it like a Polaroid.

But he follows Zayn obediently, because in the end, he wants their baby so bad it makes him lightheaded to think about it. The wanting outweighs the terror of another loss.

He drops trou and stands over the toilet, wees on the test and then hands it to Zayn, who protests (“Oh, will you please?” he says, “I'm not handing you the end of it I _weed_ on”) and does his zip back up as Zayn holds the test, waiting.

They stand over it, their foreheads pressed together, staring at it. Harry’s hair falls as a curtain across the side of his face. Zayn reaches up and gently tucks it behind his ear.

An answer begins to appear and grow clearer. Harry's heart leaps in his chest.

“Does that --” Zayn stops himself like he's scared. “Does that say pregnant? No not? Just pregnant?”

“It does,” Harry says, and he pushes Zayn back against the counter, kissing him deeply on the mouth.

“You're pregnant,” Zayn murmurs against his lips, sliding his arms over his waist and slipping them into his jeans, gripping his bare arse. “You're fuckin’ pregnant?”

Harry laughs and leans into his touch, arching against him. They nuzzle each other.

“I'm pregnant,” he whispers back, breathless. "I'm having your baby."

“C'mere,” Zayn says, and tugs him close, hands coming up to rest in his hair. “There's those dimples… haven't seen ‘em much lately…”

Harry kisses him all over his face and strokes his jaw. They're both grinning like idiots.

“We really might have a kid together,” Zayn says, dazed.

“We might have _more_ than one,” Harry reminds him, and they laugh breathlessly as they hold each other.

 

KENSINGTON, JULY 15, 2038

Harry sleeps fitfully. He expected he might have nightmares (he had nightmares after his miscarriage about all sorts of things: accidentally cooking Boots in the oven, going into Cala’s room to discover that she had vanished overnight) but he doesn’t remember any of his dreams, he just has faint feverish recollections of tossing and turning. When he wakes, Zayn is as far away from him as possible on their California king mattress. He must have been really bothersome to sleep next to.

He gets up early, as he always does. He's the opposite of Zayn, who only wants to be awake once the day is underway. This morning he gets a slow start, dragging himself into the bathroom and staring at himself in the mirror.

Harry feels old. He doesn’t normally. He doesn’t normally _look_ old, either; he’s a very well-preserved forty-four. But today there are lines and bags under his eyes and a stern line to his mouth that he hates, so he washes his face quickly and slips into a silk robe.

When he returns to the bedroom, Zayn yawns loudly.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, walking over to him where he’s lying face-down and spread-eagled on the bed, and kissing the nape of his neck. “Don’t wake up on my account…”

“‘M not,” Zayn says, and he doesn’t lift his head or make any move to get up. Harry perches next to him on the bed, catlike, and strokes his hair.

They remain like that in the quiet for a while. They’re often quiet together, not for a lack of things to talk about but more for a lack of a need to talk about them.

Their bedroom has changed quite a bit over the years. Harry has staked out certain places in the historical old house for his own aesthetic influence to dominate, and this room is one of them. It’s much brighter, now, but sleek and minimal.

Any technology that could be built into the floors, walls or furniture was. Hardly anything sticks out or is an eyesore. There are a lot of grays and muted blues, muted greens as well. He wanted the entire room to feel conducive to waking up, to the beginning of a day.

Zayn is stirring, growing more wakeful. He sits up and pulls Harry down across the bed with him, sliding a leg between his thighs.

“Hey,” Harry purrs, kissing him on his upper lip. Zayn is the most comely to Harry when he’s sleepy. It reminds him of when they were silly teenagers on tour who used to fuck all night and then wake up and fuck the entire morning away, if they didn’t have a rehearsal or a book signing to be at. If they did, they’d fuck the early morning away and then get ready in a panicked rush at the last minute. Sometimes they’d run a little late and Louis would give them a conspiratorial grin, then nudge at Harry for the next two hours, trying to get him to dish. That feels like several lifetimes ago.

“I can’t believe there’s a baby in there,” Zayn murmurs.

Their doctor’s appointment is this afternoon. He’ll take the blood test, which will hopefully confirm what they think they already know, and unfortunately really nothing else. After all, whatever’s in there is microscopic.

Harry hates thinking about that. The fragility of it is absurd. He almost feels like he could dislodge it by walking too fast.

“ _Baby_ is a little strong,” he says mildly.

“Something,” Zayn says. “Somethin’ in there.”

“Cells. A yolk sac.”

“A _yolk sac?_ ”

Harry nods. “I read it in the literature,” he says. “You haven’t been reading what they gave us?”

“Yeah, I read it, ain’t _studied up_ on it though…” Zayn nudges him like he wants him to lighten up. “The _lit-erature_ , huh?”

Harry chuckles and pulls him closer. Zayn sits up, one hand on either side of his ribcage, and leans in to kiss him. Harry slides his hands up the back of his neck, ruffling his dark hair.

Zayn starts rubbing at his cock through his robe. Harry inhales softly and enjoys the sensation for a second, then bats his hand away.

“Let’s not,” he says regretfully. “For a little while, anyway, I dunno…”

“You think I’ll hurt it?” Zayn says, and kisses his neck.

“Nooo,” Harry says, squeezing a handful of Zayn’s hair, pulling it a little and enjoying the groan he gives in response. “I just -- we aren’t really supposed to. Or, like, encouraged to, I mean.”

“I get it, mate,” Zayn whispers, kissing him on the collarbone. He undoes the belt of Harry’s robe and lets it fall to the side, kissing his nipples, his ribs, all the way down to the butterfly tattoo.

“Oh _no,_ ” Harry says, laughing.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve just realized, that tat’s going to take a serious beating… that and the laurels...”

“Oh yeah,” Zayn says, sitting up and smoothing his thumbs over it. He grins. “Maybe you can get it redone, after?”

“Maybe,” Harry says with a smile. “Or maybe I'll just leave it all stretched and awful. Like a battle scar. Oh -- like a metamorphosis. Get it?”

“Mmm,” Zayn says, and he leans down and kisses it, kisses all over his flat stomach like he's willing the little wisp of a maybe inside of Harry to become a great strong something.

 

*

 

When it's time for their appointment, Toynbee strides into the waiting room, primly calling out, “Where’s our national treasure?”

No one moves. Harry squints.

“Of course I mean Harry Styles,” the doctor adds.

“Oh, hello, hello,” Harry says, popping to his feet.

Zayn follows suit. The doctor glances at him.

“And Zayn,” he finishes.

“And Zayn,” Zayn mutters, sounding amused but with a twist of bitterness. Harry nudges him, and they follow Toynbee back to an observation room.

A nurse takes Harry’s blood and hands the vial to Toynbee, who bustles off with it. He sits on the table with a cotton ball taped to his bicep and watches Zayn play a game on his watch.

“So did anything come out of that meeting the other week?” he says. They’d discussed the run-in with Sheila at such length (Zayn had pronounced her a “minging fucker” and said with confidence that he had never liked her, which isn’t actually true, but Harry found his conviction about it charming enough to let it slide) that they hadn’t gotten around to catching up on Zayn's day.

Zayn looks up with a familiar expression -- like he’s been caught getting up to no good. “Uh,” he mutters. “Not really.”

Harry sighs. He didn’t want to be right about this.

“We got into talking more about me hostin’ a panel game,” Zayn quickly adds, “but, um, I said I don’t reckon I’m funny enough.”

“You _are_ funny,” Harry says gently. “And half the blokes who host aren’t. Hosts don’t need to be funny.”

Zayn sighs. “Alright. I dunno. They're the same people who put on Big Fat Quiz, so they asked if I wanna do that this year…”

“Yeah! Do that,” Harry says, smiling. Zayn glances over at him and smiles, too. “I’m serious, I had the greatest time taping that when I did it.”

“I remember,” Zayn says fondly. “Look… I haven’t got that thing you’ve got, you know? Now that I’m older, it isn’t like -- I’m not like, Colin Firth, Paul McCartney, whatever. I’m like, a Gallagher brother. Just a load of scandals behind me and no particular good will saved up. People’d rather not hear from me, if it’s all the same.”

“No, that isn’t true,” Harry protests.

Zayn continues smiling, his eyes dimmed and a certain resignation in his face.

“And a lot of ‘em don’t like that I snapped you up,” he says. “People don’t think I’m good enough for you, you know that.”

“Alright… and who gives a fuck?” Harry says in his low, warm voice, sliding off the table and coming toward Zayn, leaning into his space and cupping his face in his hands. “Isn’t any of their business. ‘Cos I love you.” He looks hard into his eyes. “ _You_.”

“I know,” Zayn assures him, clasping his tattooed hands over Harry’s. “I know.”

“Other people don’t really matter,” Harry says, and kisses Zayn on the forehead. “They never have.”

Zayn squeezes Harry’s wrist.

Toynbee knocks on the door, which is open. “Am I interrupting?”

Harry straightens up and returns to the bed. “Just having a moment,” he says.

“Well,” Toynbee says cheerfully, “the mood in here is a bit grim, so can I give you some good news?”

“Yes, please, please,” Harry says, his heart leaping into his chest.

“You’re definitely pregnant,” he says, and hands him a sheet full of charts and figures that are indecipherable. Harry stares at it. Zayn gets up from his chair and hops up onto the table, sliding an arm around his waist and kissing his shoulder.

“We’re really pregnant?” Harry says, lighting up.

Zayn laughs breathlessly.

“And,” Toynbee says, “your hCG levels are quite high.”

Harry has read up enough that he thinks he knows what this means, but he laser focuses on the doctor’s thin lips, waiting for them to form the words.

“I think it could be multiples,” he says. “Most likely twins.”

Harry sucks in a deep breath. He wraps his arm around Zayn’s shoulders, pulling him in so his head is against his chest. He presses his lips to the top of Zayn’s head. Zayn wraps his own arm around Harry’s waist and they sit there, tangled up in each other. His heart is going wild.

“Twins,” Zayn says, his voice muffled against Harry’s shirt.

“Twins,” Harry repeats, his voice muffled by Zayn’s hair.

“Two babies...”

Harry feels warm all over. Two babies, all theirs, two chubby sweet babies that he can hold and kiss and dress in little outfits, that he’ll get to watch learn to smile and walk. Babies that will look like Zayn.

He pushes this away immediately. _I think it could be_ , the doctor said. Not is. One baby isn’t even a guarantee. Don’t get excited, he begs himself, don’t get hurt.

He kisses Zayn, stroking his soft, dark hair, parting it with his fingers as he thinks. He can’t let Zayn get excited, either. He remembers how bitterly Zayn wept when he miscarried, how he’d let it color the joy of Cala’s adoption.

“So here’s what we do,” Toynbee says, clasping his hands together. “Progesterone suppositories --”

“Oh, there’s a great word,” Harry says, laughing. “Love to be prescribed suppositories...”

“We’ll continue testing your hormone levels over the next few weeks, and then at week eight, if all is well, you can go ahead and start seeing your regular obstetrician.”

Zayn sits up, clearing his throat. “Sounds good,” he says.

“If all does not go well,” Toynbee says gently, “we’ll regroup and discuss.”

Harry nods placidly.

“But you seem very healthy, and your blood work was excellent, and you certainly are pregnant, so we hope for the best.”

“Good,” he says, and rubs Zayn’s back.

“You’re very calm,” the doctor notes.

“I’m a calm person,” Harry replies.

 

LONDON, AUGUST 5, 2038

Louis is alone in the house on a Saturday, which has become more and more commonplace. Not alone, per se; Liam is out back tending to his garden, but the space between them feels like miles.

Liam’s been very withdrawn lately. Louis has just sort of let him be. Liam has his moods. If he’s upset about something in particular, he’ll let Louis know eventually. In the meantime, he’s been sulking and spending a lot of time alone. He’s grown out his beard, and let the hedges grow high in the front garden, too. It’s like he’s building a wall around himself to goad someone into taking it down. Louis would, if he knew what the hell the matter was.

He can’t put too much attention toward his home life, anyway, with all he’s doing at work. They’ve just acquired two smaller management companies, and all the clients therein, so his days at work are a highwire act of all the things he’s best at. And at home, Mia is either absent or scowling her way through a post-grad slump, Oliver is sneaking around getting up to no good exactly like Louis did at his age, and Liam is gardening reproachfully at him. It may be shitty of him to have thrown himself into work, but it isn’t unreasonable.

He’s in the sitting room when he hears the front door unlock and Oliver conversing quietly with someone. A female voice giggles softly.

Louis sighs and sits up straighter.

“D’you want something to drink?” Oliver whispers.

She says no.

Louis stands and makes his way into the hallway, leaning against the doorway. He raises an eyebrow at Oliver, who is halfway up the stairs. The girl looks mildly stricken, and smiles at him sheepishly.

Oliver is a cool customer. “Hey, Dad,” he says, and flashes Louis an innocent smile. This particular smile of his is always reminiscent of Liam, and it usually makes Louis go soft on him for that reason, which Oliver is well aware of and likes to exploit.

Today, Louis doesn’t go soft on him. He doesn’t move, either.

“I’ll go get us some waters,” the girl whispers, and scurries off toward the kitchen. Louis seems to remember that her name is Claire. She and Oliver have been schoolmates for a while, and he’s seen the two of them flirt on the sidelines at rugby games.

“I said no takin’ dates upstairs,” Louis says calmly. “I said that months ago, when you first tried to pull this shit.”

“Daaaad,” Oliver groans, coming back down the stairs and resting an elbow on the banister. He was reedy for his first year of secondary, but then he bulked up for rugby, and he’s grown into a handsome young buck in a way that did not escape the notice of his schoolmates. And, like both of his parents before him, he’s a little too excited to finally be the center of attention.

“I don’t want you going down this road,” Louis warns him. “You aren’t old enough.”

“We’re just going upstairs to game a bit, do some VR shit!”

“I don’t believe you.”

Oliver sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Please don’t think you’re smarter than me,” Louis says plaintively. “Please don’t forget I invented the game you’re playing right now.”

“Yeah, and you were _fine,_ ” Oliver says in exasperation. “You’re so terrified I’m going to have --” he lowers his voice, “ _sex_ \-- but I’m fifteen years old! When did you have sex for the first time? Fourteen?”

“No.”

“Fifteen?”

Louis swallows and doesn’t respond. Oliver gestures as if this proves his point.

“Well, and I got pregnant at twenty-three,” he replies evenly, “and I had my first scare at sixteen, and then a scare with my girlfriend at nineteen, and another at twenty-one… It’s an entire world you’re opening yourself up to, and it really should be with someone you care about, in case things go wrong. And it should be when you’re older, and you understand the gravity of it.”

“I swear the most we were going to do was fool around,” Oliver says, not looking at him. “I swear I haven’t gone there yet.”

“I believe you, but fooling around turns into sex properly fast. You live under my roof, don't forget that."

“Dad,” Oliver says, shaking his head. “You can’t protect me from everything --”

“I know,” Louis tells him, gentler. “I know that better than anyone, alright? But I can protect you from yourself. You’re not _like_ me.” A pain develops in his chest. “Don’t… don’t try to take after me. You’re a good boy, like your dad. Be a good boy.”

Oliver is silent, looking at him with round dark eyes, seemingly at a loss of how to respond.

“Go on and hang out with her,” Louis says. “Claire, right?”

“Yeah, Claire.”

“Hang out with her. But downstairs.”

“Alright,” Oliver mutters.

Louis walks past him, clapping him on the shoulder as he does. Oliver looks defeated.

“I’m only looking out for you,” Louis quietly reminds him, as he departs back into the sitting room.

“I know!” Oliver says. "I know...”

 

KENSINGTON, AUGUST 19, 2038

Harry spends a lot of time lately tucked up in bed, or meditating, or writing. He doesn’t write music or scripts or anything, he writes plans; great meandering plans for editorials he’d like to shoot, lists of people he’d like to work with in the future, how they’d need to change the house if a baby came, lesson plans for future acting classes.

He doesn’t want to do anything at all that would stress his uterus. He doesn’t even like going up and down the stairs. Cala begins to throw tantrums over his lack of attention, which wounds him. He tries to reassure her, but gets nowhere. She’s used to him spoiling her rotten, is the problem.

“You’re always _resting!_ ” she’d hollered reproachfully at him the other day, as Zayn dragged her out the door off to day camp and Harry stood in the doorway, dressed in loose clothes, arms folded as if to shield himself from his own guilt.

He’s nauseous quite a lot, too. Zayn’s very attentive, stroking his hair and fetching him anything he needs, reassuring him it’s just that it’s because there’s probably more than one baby. 

Harry still hasn’t come to grips with that, yet. If he had to speak to his darkest feelings about it, he really isn’t on board with twins. Two already-born babies, yes, in a heartbeat; if Cala had had a sibling, he’d have taken them in too, or if he had a chance to adopt twin babies, he’d have done it. But he’s terrifically anxious about carrying them inside himself. Double the chance for things to go wrong. He no longer trusts his own uterus; he's seen behind the curtain, he knows how fragile this process is.

These weeks are awful, because he knows absolutely nothing except that his hormone levels are good and still indicate multiples. He lives in a bubble of uncertainty.

When he and Zayn lie in bed late at night, he confesses how frightened he is, and Zayn sleepily murmurs nothings to him and kisses him, assuring him that it’s normal to worry, that he’s worried about Mia ever since he found out Louis was pregnant, that everything will be alright.

Harry's comforted by his kisses, but he doesn’t believe him. He has a bad feeling that grows stronger as the days wear on. But there's nothing to indicate that he's right. Nothing to indicate that he's wrong, either. He lies awake curled around himself, just hoping. 

 

LONDON, AUGUST 25, 2038

Mia is starting to feel like a crazy person.

Sometimes Shannon is so sweet to her, so doting and affectionate, and sometimes it’s like Mia annoys her. Something about the way she talks or the way she is, how grumpy and withdrawn she can be, something about how much love she needs.

Shannon never actually rolls her eyes or sighs at her, but Mia feels the restrained eyerolls and sighs just as harshly as if they’d happened. And then she feels crazy, because they didn’t happen.

She wants, some moments, to wheel around and scream at her, _do you even like me, really?_ But she has no solid evidence to justify that kind of outburst. All she has is her intuition. All she has is the distinct feeling that Shannon sometimes finds her exhausting.

In her worst moments, she worries that she _is_ exhausting. Sometimes she feels like she’s the worst of all the men who raised her: prickly like Zayn, needling like Louis, a raw wound like Liam.

Shannon’s love makes her insane because it shuts off at will, like a faulty faucet. One moment Mia is the apple of her eye, the next moment Shannon is fidgety and distracted, annoyed, prone to long silences.

She should just get out of it, dump her, but it isn’t that easy.

Mia watches her from across the football pitch one late Wednesday afternoon, as the sky is setting over West London, making everyone glow. She drags in air and rests her hands on her thighs, having just foiled two back-to-back runs on the goal, the air like a knife in her chest.

And Shannon is dancing away, rejoining their offense. When she reaches the half, she turns and looks at Mia. She grins at her, and then winks.

It’s like the sun peeking at you. Mia smiles back.

 

KENSINGTON, AUGUST 31, 2038

“Babe,” Zayn says, tapping him on the foot. “Let’s go.”

“I’m sending an email,” Harry mutters, tapping away at the display on his forearm.

“Yeah, and fifteen minutes ago it was ‘me nails aren’t dry yet.’”

“Right, they weren’t... so that’s why I’m sending an email now.”

Zayn reaches down and taps the screen of his watch, hard. The display vanishes.

“Oh, that’s mature, thanks,” Harry says with a laugh, looking up at him. Zayn comes closer into his space, and Harry gets up off their leather couch, looking down from his vantage of height superiority. Zayn grins.

“Are we ready, or what?” he says, holding his hand out.

“I’m ready,” Harry acquiesces, taking it.

“It’ll be alright, my fraidy-cat boy,” Zayn says. “Whatever happens. We’ve got each other, we’ve got our girl, it’ll be alright.”

“I told you I’ve just got a bad feeling,” Harry says, his mouth going dry from forming the words.

The grandfather clock ticks loudly in the other room as Zayn worries at his lip, his brow creased with thought.

“I know. But…” he heaves a sigh. “Better to know for sure.”

Harry runs his hands through Zayn’s hair, his silver rings shining in the inky black of it. Zayn takes him by the waist and looks into his eyes.

“I worry about you, mostly,” he confesses. “I -- you were so upset when I miscarried.”

Zayn’s eyes shutter.

“That was a tough time,” he says. “I dunno, I -- we didn’t know for sure if Cala’s adoption would go through, and then -- it was a lot. I’m not -- don’t be scared on my behalf. You’re not my baby incubator, mate. You’re my partner, you’re my man. Wh’ever happens, we’ll get through it together. I reckon we’ve proven to ourselves how tough we are.”

Harry feels some relief. Tension leaves his shoulders. It hadn’t occurred to him how much he’d been taking responsibility for Zayn’s potential sadness.

“No matter what we hear today,” Harry says softly, “I wanna make love tonight. I want to feel you, I want to be with you.”

Zayn kisses him on the top lip. “Good. I’ve been waitin’,” he says with a laugh.

 

*

 

The obstetrician they’re going to is named Cora. She's exuberant and Northern; Harry got recommended to her by way of Gemma. She delivered both of his nephews, and in fact one of the first thing she says to him when she’s got him up in the stirrups with a wand inside him is, “Cor, you’ve got a uterus just like your sister’s!”

“Cheers,” Harry says in mild horror, looking over at Zayn, who is bent over with his hands clasped, trying not to laugh audibly.

“I mean that in a good way, too. It’s a great uterus to have.”

“I… fantastic.”

“So,” Cora says, flipping on the hologram display and then dragging over the little table on wheels so Zayn and Harry can see better.

Against a saddle-shaped background, there’s two tear-drop dark splotches, and inside them, each, two small lighter forms.

Harry reaches out and grabs Zayn’s hand, squeezing it so hard his fingers crunch together. “Is that what I think it is?” he says.

Zayn scoots forward on his rolly chair, using his free hand to loosen Harry’s grip on him.

“Is -- is that two?” he says softly.

Cora smiles. “It is!”

“Shit,” Harry breathes.

Cora’s face changes as she tilts the wand inside of Harry. He watches her, his heart sinking in his chest.

“Um,” she says. “So… give me a moment here…”

They give her a moment, which stretches into a minute. Harry counts out the seconds.

“I don’t want to alarm anyone,” she says.

Harry doesn’t tell her that they’re already alarmed, that he’s been terrified since June, that he just wants the bad news already so he can stop walking around breathless from sick dread.

The blinds on the windows are pulled, and the room is well-lit, but there’s a hard gloom outside that creeps in anyway. It’s a cool day for August, no sun, not quite bad enough weather to rain but perhaps made gloomier by the lack of it. The sort of day where nothing happens.

“Just tell us,” Zayn says, a little rudely. Harry squeezes his hand and gives him a glance.

“Sorry,” he adds.

“It’s alright,” she says with a sympathetic smile and sad eyes. “So, the good news is you've got one big healthy baby with a strong heartbeat. But that’s sort of the problem, actually. Your big healthy baby is squeezing out your other one. The second twin is quite small, and I’m having trouble finding the heartbeat right now. In these cases, the smaller twin often resorbs into the uterus.”

Harry lets his head drop back against the chair. Tears gather in his eyes, but don’t fall.

“Alright,” he says. “Anything I can do? Anything you can do?”

“Nothing you can do,” she says quickly. “Don't feel responsible.”

“Responsible?” Harry says, staring at the ceiling. “So I'm definitely losing this baby?”

“Not definitely. Nothing is a guarantee. This is only your first ultrasound, and sometimes things change. Nothing is set in stone. I just want to you be aware.”

Zayn comes closer to Harry and rests his head against his shoulder, kissing him.

“We’ll keep you on your hormone regimen, we’ll give you some other supplements…”

She carries on and on in this vein, and Harry -- who is normally a diligent note-taker and memorizer of instructions -- tunes out entirely. He lets Zayn pay attention for him.

 

*

 

They pick Cala up from camp on the way home and Harry focuses on her, her and nothing else. He draws her out, asking her about her day, asking her about her friends. He reads to her for an hour in English, and has her follow along in the book as he does. He loses himself in her.

Night sweeps over the house, eventually. Zayn takes Cala through her bedtime routine as Harry sits on the balcony, drinking a cup of tea and looking out over Kensington. All these big houses, each so similar, all so crammed together. All the honking and shouting in the street below.

Zayn comes to him and takes his empty teacup from his hand, escorting him to bed. He lays him down across the sheets and Harry comes to life, tugging off his clothes, moving sensually and staring into Zayn’s dark, sleepy eyes.

“We haven't got to,” Zayn murmurs.

“I want to,” Harry says, grabbing him hard by the jaw. “I want you inside me. I wanna feel you.”

Zayn exhales and pulls their bodies flush together, kissing up Harry’s neck. His breath is warm, his body pleasantly sinewy. His soft hands hold Harry at the smallest part of his waist, and then Zayn lubes his fingers and slides them into him, opening him up.

He's been horny lately from hormones, so it doesn't take long. Soon Zayn is in, and they're breathing heavily together. Harry rocks slowly on him, wanting this to last a long time.

Zayn thrusts gently, like he's frightened. Harry is, too. He feels his own human fragility so acutely right now.

The slow rocking into him makes for a nice tickle in his prostate. A few minutes of blissful pleasure goes by with them kissing each other, and then they pull back and start staring into each other's eyes. Harry usually gets harder when they do this, but tonight it makes him start crying.

“Oh, love,” Zayn whispers, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and holding him tight, rocking into him more slowly. “Babe, don't…”

Tears stream fiercely down Harry’s face, over the sides of his cheekbones. “It's alright,” he chokes out.

“Haz…”

Harry buries his face against Zayn's neck.

“I can't keep losing our babies,” he says, his voice breaking.

Zayn makes a throaty, strangled sound of grief and awkwardly tries to separate them. “Should I --”

“No, no, don't, please stay --”

Zayn kisses Harry hard on the lips.

“I just need to get this out of my system,” Harry breathes. “Don't stop.”

“Alright, love.”

He fucks Harry for a few more quiet and tender minutes as Harry sobs raggedly. But soon Zayn loses his erection and pulls out of him, then drags him into his arms, cradling him. Harry feels safe, like this, and cries into his chest for a while. Zayn cries, too.

“Sorry,” Zayn whispers to him hoarsely, wiping away his own tears. “Just can’t stay hard when you're this upset...”

“No, no,” Harry says, choking out a laugh. “It's alright.”

He kisses Zayn’s collarbone.

“I feel better,” he murmurs. “I reckon -- I dunno. I push things down, a lot. I need to feel it, sometimes.”

“It'll all be okay,” Zayn says. “We've got -- we've got what we've got. Maybe two babies. Maybe one baby. We've got something, either way.”

“I know,” Harry says, stroking Zayn’s face. “I’m -- I never thought this would happen for us. We’re really lucky. I’m just sad.”

“Maybe it’ll work out,” Zayn says softly. “Maybe the tiny one’ll surprise us.”

“No, please don’t,” Harry says, swallowing. “Don’t… let’s not.”

Zayn kisses him on the forehead. “Alright. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, either,” Harry says, laughing through his tears.

They settle down into the bed, in each other’s arms, neither of them sexually satisfied but neither of them hard anymore, either. Harry feels sedated by his crying, in the way of a person finally allowing himself to grieve.

When he lost his dad a year ago, he hadn’t truly cried for months, except for a little at the funeral and when he found out. Then one day he was going through his things with Gemma, and came across an old coat that smelled like him, and Harry had sunk to the floor sobbing for half an hour while she comforted him.

 

HOLMES CHAPEL, SEPTEMBER 3, 2038

They don’t tell anyone anything, still. It feels like tempting fate, even though Harry is nine weeks along. He doesn’t know what they would possibly say. I’m pregnant with twins, except maybe I’m not? He worries about if he starts showing.

All Cala knows is that he’s been getting sick a lot and is very tired. Zayn must have had a sit-down with her, because she’s more patient with Harry, and asks a less of him. Harry knows Zayn is trying to ease his burden, but now more than ever he wants to dote on his daughter.

Gemma and his mum find out by accident. They’re sitting around the kitchen island, catching up with each other as rain patters the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out to the patio. Harry is telling them about the script for a BBC drama he’s been eyeing. He doesn’t tell them that he’s sent out a note to the producers saying if he’s cast, they’ll have to put off production a year or two.

“It sounds like _Broadchurch_ ,” his mum says.

“Well, in that it’s a whodunnit, yeah,” Harry says agreeably, although it isn’t much like _Broadchurch_ at all. The older you get, the more you want to humor your mum.

“I’m glad you’ve come back to England to work,” she says. “I got an earful from my friends when you were off in the states all those years, doing those Hollywood films. They said to me, where’s the loyalty? Ribbing you, of course. But we’re all glad to have you back, now.”

“Our national treasure,” Gemma intones, folding her arms against the black marble of the counter. “So, not to segue, but Andrew has this great story from the last time he was in --”

Harry is suddenly gripped by a nausea so intense he becomes light-headed. He pushes off his stool and stumbles to the sink, vomiting.

When he’s finished, his throat burning and his nose stinging, he turns to see them both sitting there in puppet-faced shock.

“You really do know how to upstage a conversation, don’t you?” Gemma says mildly.

Harry rinses the sink and his mouth.

“Um,” he says weakly. “I’ve got some news, actually.”

It takes a second for Gemma to twig, and then her face lights up.

“Wait, you aren’t really,” she exclaims. “Seriously? You hadn’t said anything! That’s fantastic!”

“What am I missing?” Anne says, glancing back and forth between them.

Dread and happiness snake outward from Harry’s heart. He returns to them and settles back in his seat, arms folded.

“Zayn and me did IVF, mum,” he says in his low voice. “With the eggs I froze a while ago. I told Gemma, ‘cos I needed her to watch Cala while I got the procedure, but nobody else. I didn’t want to get people’s hopes up, if it didn’t work. But I’m nine weeks pregnant, about.”

His mum slides off her stool and bounces over to him, collaring him around the neck and kissing him all over his face, stroking his hair.

“I thought you’d never have one of your own,” Anne says, drawing back to look him in the face, her eyes shining. “This is so wonderful... Let me have you over soon, alright, the both of you? So Robin and I can congratulate you properly?”

“Of course, mummy,” Harry says, smiling, and kisses her back, then holds her close to him.

Gemma sips her tea and watches him, her eyebrows furrowed. She seems to sense that something is wrong. Harry sucks in some air.

“There’s a bit more to it,” he says, after struggling with how to say it.

Anne and Gemma exchange a tense look.

“No, it’s okay,” he assures them. “I’m, um… it’s just they put three in, ‘cos I’ve miscarried before, and two of them took. But one of them’s quite small. They aren’t sure if it’ll, um…”

He trails off, shaking his head.

“I’ll probably lose it,” Harry says. His jaw is extremely tight.

They’re looking at him with a mixture of sadness and worry, now. He gives them a grim smile that doesn’t meet his eyes at all.

“Please don’t look so sad,” he says hoarsely.

“Harry, we look sad because you’re crying,” Gemma points out.

Harry touches his face. He is.

His mum pulls him close again, rocking the both of them to and fro together, kissing him on the head.

“Are you alright?” she whispers. “You’re healthy, you’re okay? I know they pump you full of hormones for that…”

“I’m good, I’m doing just fine,” Harry assures her. Her shoulder is damp from his tears. He feels like a five-year-old, for a moment.

Gemma comes over and joins them, hugging them both very tightly.

“How’s the other one, though?” she says after a while.

Harry clears his throat. “Big and healthy, apparently. Strong heartbeat.”

She kisses him on the cheek. “Alright, good.”

 

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 15, 2038

It’s almost a relief to Mia when she finds out Shannon is cheating on her.

She gets an anonymous message from someone. Her parents are still enough in the public eye that she is as well, residually, although her dreams of being a famous actress died a few years ago -- drowned in spite. She’d gone with Liam to L.A. for a weekend at sixteen years old, and taken a meeting with an agent without telling him. She was already fairly certain Hollywood wasn’t for her, but she wanted to know for sure.

The agent, an unpleasant alpha woman, had examined her like she was a slab on a butcher’s hook.

“You’re quite pretty,” she’d said, then pinched Mia on the thigh and told her, “Lose ten pounds and get the nose done, and you could go far.”

Mia had told her to fuck off and left, shaken.

Her job now, for how sucky it is, is at least anonymous. But her existence never will be. So she still gets papped, she’s still known to the public, she still gets messages from total strangers on social media.

This one came a day after Eid. She was in a nice mood because of that; she likes Eid, she likes that Cala is old enough to understand it now. Cala even gave her a gift this year that she picked out and wrapped by herself. And she likes that it’s something she and Zayn share. It’s comforting, it wraps her up in her family and insulates her from the real world.

But the real world never leaves her alone for very long.

 _isnt this your gf???_ the message reads. It came with a photo.

Hands shaking, she taps it open. It’s Shannon, definitely. She’s got a very distinctive shoulder tattoo. She’s snogging some other girl, hands shoved into her hair.

Mia pulls up the metadata. It was taken last weekend. Her blood boils.

At first she's angry with whoever sent it to her, and then this fades into gratefulness; grateful she doesn't have to spend another second playing the fool. She sits around her flat, drinking two cups of tea in quick succession, and finally texts her best friend, Sasha.

 _Ohhhh my god what a cunt!_ , Sasha says. _Im sry im with my brother and his wife for the weekend but do you want to like get a drink over VR or something? I feel terrible ur all alone_

Mia thinks of her friends from uni, who are either struggling actors, up-and-comers in politics, or hustling through a bartending or retail gig. They all work ridiculous hours now; they use Saturday to catch up on their sleep. She's not going to bother them.

 _I'm fine,_ she says back. _Have fun with your fam. I'll prob just go see the dads tonight_

 _Yeah do that!!!_ Sasha says. _And if you want to get shitfaced u can always text Mickey. not a great listener but always a good time lol_

Mia powers off her watch and sits back against the couch, feeling terribly lonely. Normally she loves the open plan of her little attic studio; she lives over a bakery, and during the day there's constant noise from downstairs and the bustling streets outside. Now, sitting here under the low peaked ceiling, staring at her many plants and listening to an ambulance wail outside, she’s claustrophobic.

She decides waiting around is for losers, and collects her jacket.

 

*

 

Shannon does clerical work at Freshfields Bruckhaus Deringer. Big places like that are always in desperate need of people who can code, now, and that’s her specialty. She spends all day tucked in a tiny corner cubicle, her every keystroke monitored and four bosses who take turns breathing down her neck.

Mia would usually feel sorry for her, thinking about this, but that was before she got cheated on.

She trudges across the street to the gleaming office building, through their sterile circular courtyard. Solicitors sit around in their expensive but drab coats and suits, talking to each other or sitting there with VR glasses on swiping through the air like idiots. Some of them give sideways glances to Mia, who's wearing joggers, a leather jacket, and a t-shirt without a bra underneath. In her current mood she wants to give them the finger, but that isn't conducive to getting upstairs.

Security lets her up without any issue, though. She uses her years of acting experience to say “I'm here to see Shannon Hymes” with her chirpiest voice, and not sound like a vengeful crazy person.

And as she rides the elevator up, she realizes she doesn't feel like a vengeful crazy person. She _wants_ to. All she really feels is wounded, and rejected. The anger is slipping away from her like water through her fingers.

When she approaches Shannon’s desk, her heart clenches at the sight of Shannon’s familiar shock of hair. She comes up behind her and taps her on the shoulder.

Shannon removes her headphones. “Hey!” she says, turning in her chair. “This is a nice surprise.”

Mia’s nostrils flare and she shoves her hands in her jacket pockets. “Is it?”

“Babe,” Shannon says, concerned.

Mia takes one hand back out and taps her watch. The photo she was sent appears, displayed across her forearm.

Shannon stares at it.

“That's old,” she whispers, looking around nervously. “That's from before we met --”

“It's from last weekend, actually.”

Shannon’s face drains of color. “Look -- it was a bit of snogging, Mimi --”

“Don't call me that.”

She can tell she's being louder than she means to, because people in other cubicles are glancing over in curiosity.

“Babe,” Shannon whispers fiercely. “Let's go outside.”

“A bit of snogging? _Seriously_?”

“Nothing else happened, it was one time, it was stupid, I'm sorry --”

Mia grabs her by the wrist. “Open up your texts.”

“No!”

“Open them up!”

Shannon stares at her. Everyone is watching them, now.

“Someone sent me that photo,” Mia hisses. “Some… _random_ fucking person! I'm willing to bet there’s more out there. So do you want to show me, or should I start asking around and find out you lied?”

Shannon stares at her with misery in her dark eyes, then opens up her texts.

Mia comes around to her side so she can read them. Girl after girl after girl. Nudes. Calling other girls _babe_. She wants to vomit.

She releases Shannon’s arm aggressively, in disgust.

“I'm leaving your shit downstairs in the bakery, in a box,” she says in a low voice. “You can come get it at your _leisure_.”

Shannon stares at her in horror. “We can work this out! _Mia_!”

“No. And I'm resetting the passcode to my flat.”

“Babe --”

“Don't!” Mia shrieks, almost hysterically. Tears gather in her eyes. “Don't call me that! Jesus Christ!”

“I'm --

“Are you even _clean_? Do I need to worry about _that_ , now?”

“Mia!”

Mia backs away, shaking. “I don't want to see you again,” she says. “I’m quitting the footie team. And I'm cutting you off all my social media. _Goodbye_.”

There is total, dead silence as she walks away toward the elevator, and then buzzing whispers from Shannon’s coworkers as she gets on.

The doors slide shut. Mia wraps her arms around herself, and leans against the cool metal wall.

 

*

 

“Call Carly,” Mia says aloud as she slides into her car. “And drive back to my flat, please.”

The car pulls smoothly back onto Fleet Street. Rain is beginning to patter the car. Mia looks out over the Thames as the line rings.

“Hi, Mia,” Carly says. Her voice already has that cloyingly sympathetic tone that means she won't be able to connect her with Louis. Mia heaves an annoyed sigh.

“Your father is --”

“In a meeting, I'm sure.”

“Yes, he's with a client. Can I take a message?”

“His message is to pay some attention to his fucking family,” Mia snaps. “You can redact the fucking, if you like.”

“Alright,” Carly says, in that restrained, Southern way of hers. “I'll tell him.”

“Thanks. Sorry for snapping at you.”

“No problem, Miss Tomlinson. Have a lovely day.”

“You too.”

They hang up, and Mia sighs.

“Change course,” she says. “Drive me to Zayn’s.”

 

KENSINGTON, SEPTEMBER 15, 2038

Harry wakes that morning alone.

Zayn had gotten a call very early from his older sister, asking him to please come help with his dad. Yaser has been getting confused these past few months, and he won't listen to her their other sisters or even Trisha, only his son. So he'd kissed Harry goodbye and left around five.

Harry sleeps in much later than that, dozing, faintly aware in his half-sleep that he's having stomach cramps, not awake enough to realize that's bad. He bobs under the surface of his dreams like a cork, barely breaking through, tossing and turning. 

Then there's a cramp so powerful it jars him awake. His heart pounding, he tears back the sheets in horror to see that he's been bleeding for long enough that it's half-dried on the bedspread.

His hand goes to his mouth. All sound is strangled in his throat before it can leave his mouth.

"No, no no," he begs on an exhale, "no no no no no, please not again, no --"

He frantically tears out of bed, tying his hair up. He wonders what the hell he's going to do with Cala, then remembers that their part-time nanny takes her to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings. He throws some clothes on, and quickly vomits in the bathroom before he races out the door to the car. The bile stings in his nostrils. 

“Call Cora’s emergency line, and drive to Cora’s office,” Harry says as soon as he gets the door shut behind him, then presses his hand to his forehead and bounces his knee frantically as the dashboard line rings.

“Good morning, Mr Styles --

“I'm bleeding,” Harry says hoarsely, and then bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep the swelling terror in him at bay.

The doctor is silent for a brief moment.

“How badly? Spotting?”

“Not spotting. Bleeding.”

“Cramping?”

“Yes!” he shouts. “Of course! I'm having a fucking miscarriage! _I know what it feels like!”_

“Harry, Harry! You’re, what -- eleven weeks? Your placenta hasn't quite formed yet. Sometimes this _happens_ and it doesn't mean anything, alright? You might be completely fine!”

Harry breathes deeply, centering himself.

“I know it's hard to stay calm when you’ve miscarried before and you start bleeding. But come in, and I'll see you, and please don't stress yourself any more until I do.”

“Alright,” he says, leaning back in the seat and putting his feet up on the dash. “Thank you… thanks. Sorry for shouting.”

“See you soon, Harry.”

They ring off. Harry closes his eyes and lays his hands over his abdomen.

Sometimes, lately, he looks at his lanky body in the mirror and thinks he's showing, just a little bit. Other times, it feels like wishful thinking. He wonders if he’ll ever get there, now: ever get to see himself pregnant, ever get to really _be_ pregnant.

 

*

 

“Where's Zayn?” is the first thing Cora says to him, as her gloved hands press a wand to his abdomen.

The hologram generator is warming up. Harry watches it in impatience. It's a slim white circle with a glowing blue light in the center; so impersonal and inhuman.

“With his dad,” Harry mutters. “He left early this morning… his dad’s gone a bit funny in his old age, it helps having Zayn around…”

“Dementia?”

“We guess. He doesn't like clinical terms like that.”

“They've got a lot of good treatments for that,” she says, staring just as impatiently as he is at the white circle sitting on the table next to them.

“They do,” Harry agrees. “He's responded well to some. He's just not very cooperative with the things that take a lot of work… doesn't like VR… I think ‘cos it'd be admitting something’s wrong. It's easier for him to lean on Zayn, have Zayn remind him of things.”

“So I gather you haven't told him you're here,” Cora says. “Not that there's necessarily anything wrong.”

Harry shrugs. “Why worry him, if there might not be?”

“Because you're clearly scared, and you’re in pain, and he's your partner, and the father?”

Harry smiles weakly. “I can handle it.”

The hologram generator buzzes to life, shooting up a grainy, black-and-white impression of his uterus. It's more three-dimensional than the last one, since she can move the wand all around his stomach.

After half a minute, Cora reaches out and squeezes his hand. He knows instantly what's happened. The knowledge is heavy in his limbs like a fever.

“The first thing I want to say is that you've got a big healthy baby here,” she says softly, and turns it so he can see better.

There's a three-dimensional image of a fetus, curled up inside him, its head still so much larger than the rest of it. It’s starting to look human, though. His breath catches in his throat.

“You do seem to have lost the smaller twin, Harry.”

He feels a blunted, numb sort of relief at finally knowing.

“I'm sorry to have to give you that news. We call this vanishing twin syndrome… it's very common in multiples. I promise you that there is nothing you or I could have done. Sometimes this just happens, and often it means the baby wouldn’t have made it to term anyway.”

“Right,” Harry says, his voice thick.

“But the good news is,” she says gently, “you're not quite in the second trimester, so this shouldn't have any effect on you or your other baby. Who, I want to say again, looks very strong and healthy.”

Harry runs his hand through his hair. His mouth is dry.

“Can I have some water?” he says.

Cora fetches him a bottle of it and hands it over.

“Your embryos were also all screened for birth defects before implantation,” she says softly. “We're very good at that, now. So I feel quite confident.” Her voice sounds like white noise.

“Okay,” Harry says, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Would you like me to call Zayn for you?”

His heart is rent at the thought of Zayn. He wants so badly to hold him, to be held by him, but at the same time he wants to protect him from this, shield his heart from this grief.

“No,” he says. “I'll -- I'll let him know.”

Harry's head is so fuzzy he wobbles as he stands. He buttons his shirt slowly, with fumbling fingers.

“Hey… is it a boy or a girl?” he says, pressing a palm gingerly to his stomach.

Cora slides her hands into her pockets, smiling. “It’s a boy.”

 

*

 

Harry comes home to an empty house.

He stalks through the rooms, calling Cala’s name, calling the nanny’s name, his calls becoming shouts the longer he goes without a response. His watch can't find hers anywhere in the house.

He's gripped by an unreasonable terror. He keeps thinking of the nightmares he sometimes has where she'll vanish, or her adoption is revoked, her British citizenship revoked, with her dragged off in the night crying while he sleeps peacefully upstairs, unaware.

Finally, Harry goes to ring Zayn and ask if he's got her, and he sees he's missed a text from Mia.

_I took Cala to the park for a while. Be back soon_

A rage that's very unlike him rises up in him. It’s possessive, jealous, ugly. Why is she taking his baby out from under his nose, scaring the shit out of him, asking forgiveness instead of permission? Who gave her that right?

He storms back out of the house. His anger at Mia isn't entirely because of her actions, he knows, although they were stupid and inconsiderate and indicative of a lack of boundaries. Some of it is what she symbolizes. Zayn and Louis’ daughter together, whole and adult and alive.

Harry thinks of the sheets upstairs, and his stomach lurches. He texts their housekeeper as he gets in the car.

 _Please change the bedding in the east wing master. You don't have to wash it. just throw it out. Thank you_ _xx_

 

*

 

Harry stands near the ivy-covered gate with his arms folded. He spots Mia and Cala right away; Mia is pushing her on the swings while one of Cala’s friends, a sweet kid named Eddie who hasn’t quite grown into his ears, swings next to them.

Mia is smiling and chatting away with Cala, who looks happy and engaged, her brown eyes bright. Harry feels bad he’s got to interrupt this.

But when Mia notices him and makes eye contact, he crooks his finger and mouths _come here._

She whispers something to Cala and then comes over, her arms folded defensively like she’s expecting to get an earful. Harry notices as she gets closer that she isn’t made up like she usually is; her face is scrubbed clean, puffy like she’s been crying, and her dark hair is pulled back messily. She doesn’t look like herself.

Harry hopes she’s alright, because she’s his stepdaughter and he loves her, but his own daughter takes priority.

“What’s going on here?” he says when she stops in front of him.

She stares up at him, steely and defiant. “What d’you mean, what’s going on here? I took her to the park.”

“You didn’t think to tell me?”

“I texted you.”

Harry sighs. “I obviously didn’t see it! Could you have waited for a response? Could you have rung me? Could you have hung out with her at the house, and waited for me to get back?”

“I didn’t know where you were,” she snaps.

Harry experiences a stabbing, throbbing pain above his eyelid, in the trigger point there. “None of your business,” he says.

“Why is this such a big deal? What’s the problem?”

“I didn’t know where she was!” Harry shouts. “I got home and she’d vanished!”

“Check your messages!”

“I was busy!”

“Well, I didn’t know that!” Mia shouts back.

“It isn’t your business!” Harry hisses at her. “And Cala isn’t yours to do whatever you like with!”

“What, so you don’t want my help with her?” Mia demands. “This is so fucking rich, you always do this. You’re so fucking possessive!”

“I’m protective!”

“That’s a stupid way to be!”

“She’s a fucking orphan!” Harry whispers fiercely, taking her by the sleeve of her jumper and pulling her back out the gate, onto the sidewalk so no one can hear them. “Alright? Some of the kids in her orphanage were killed by an air strike while they were out for a walk, and she just never saw them again! I can’t have someone coming in and out of her life, deciding when it suits them to be close to her --”

“Please! When have I _ever_ done that?” Mia demands, looking disgusted.

“Who’s to say you won’t?” Harry challenges. “Who’s to say you won’t take a job in the states and suddenly see her four times a year instead of twice a week?”

He presses his hand to his eyes. His heart is going mad in his chest. This can’t be good for him or for the baby.

 _“I_ say that!” Mia exclaims. “You’re being horrid! You act like I don’t care about her at all, like I don’t know what she’s been through or don’t feel protective of her!”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, lowering his hands and placing them on her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to imply any of that. I’m --”

He swallows.

“Things are going to have to change a little,” he says. “You’re going to have to work with me more, and if you don’t like a rule of mine or something I do or say, you can’t run to Zayn behind my back and complain about it.”

“Why are you going on about all this _now_?”

“Because I’m pregnant,” Harry says softly.

Mia’s eyes widen. He isn’t quite sure what she’s feeling; it isn’t evident on her face. She just stares at him in glassy-faced shock.

“I did IVF with your dad, with some eggs I’d frozen a long time ago, and we got pregnant. And our household’s going to be a little different, and I’m going to exert more control over it,” Harry says, slow and calm. “Alright?”

“Oh, thanks for the fucking update!” she exclaims, jerking away from him. “I’m the last to know, I’m sure!”

“No,” he says patiently, “no one else knows except your dad, my mum and my sister, actually.”

Mia sets her jaw and turns to walk away from him. He grabs her by the arm.

“Don’t just disappear,” he says. “Go say goodbye to Cala, first.”

Mia shakes him off of her and turns on her heel, pushing the gate open hard. He sees her stop in her tracks, take a deep breath, and then go over to Cala, beckon her close and bend to hug her.

Harry follows, coming near to them but keeping his distance, trying to keep his queasiness at bay at the same time. A few of the other parents wave to him from benches and tables, and he waves back with a tight smile, subtly making it clear he isn’t going to stop and chat today.

When Mia releases her and tells her goodbye, Cala looks up and sees Harry. She bolts and runs over to him through the grass.

Harry kneels and takes her into his arms.

“Daddy,” she exclaims.

“Hi, lovebug.”

Mia walks past them, her eyes bright with tears. Harry senses there must be something else going on with her, but she isn’t going to tell him, and it’s besides the point, anyway. Twenty-two is too old to not apologize for making a parent think their child had vanished. Twenty-two is too old not to know better.

Harry mouths goodbye at her as she goes. She tightens her jaw and waves.

He turns away, and holds his daughter tighter, stroking her hair.

 

*

 

Mia presses her thumb to the print-reader on Louis and Liam’s front gate, then half-jogs up the circular cobblestone drive, slipping slightly on the wet stones in her worn-out trainers. Overhead, the sky is darkening to an unfriendly steel grey.

She presses her thumb to the second print-reader on their door, but her palms are clammy and it doesn’t take. She heaves an exasperated sigh and just pounds on it for a while.

No one answers at first, and then Liam finally appears, squinting at her through the tempered glass.

“What’s wrong?” he says, sounding concerned as he opens the door. “Why all the pounding?”

Mia shakes her head. She’s getting choked up already.

“Really shit day,” she says, and starts to cry.

Liam makes soft shushing noises and pulls her into his arms, then takes her by the shoulder and guides her through the house, to the sitting room, where he lowers her onto the couch and hands her some tissues.

“Where’s Dad?” she sniffles.

Liam clears his throat. “Still at work. What’s wrong, love? What happened?”

Mia leans against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He pulls her close, like she’s a little girl again.

“Shannon was cheating on me,” Mia says raggedly. “I went to her job, and I -- I dumped her in front of everyone --”

“Shh, shh, it's alright --”

“It was like a dozen girls, Dad, so fucking many --”

“Shh -- oh, sweetheart --” Liam presses his lips to the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “That’s horrid, that’s awful.”

Mia cries, in a terrible, self-pitying way that she hates. She sobs and sobs, barely able to catch her breath. Liam rubs her back in circles.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” she says, choking on her tears, wiping her nose with a tissue. “I reckon -- I’m like, too needy or something --”

“There’s nothing wrong with having needs,” Liam says intently.

“Nothing wrong with wanting to love and be loved.”

“She called them all _babe_ too,” Mia whispers. “She didn’t mean it when she called me babe. Not at all.”

“She sounds like a fucking sociopath, honestly,” Liam says with venom. “Some people are just narcissists.”

“Didn’t…” Mia hesitates. “Didn’t Dad -- didn’t Zayn cheat on aunt Pezza? With a bunch of people, and then Dad? Isn’t that why I exist?”

Liam is silent for a moment.

“That was a weird situation,” he finally says. “I won’t make excuses for Zayn. He was really troubled and fucked up back then. Having you sort of got him back on track -- eventually, at least.”

“Maybe Shannon’s just fucked up, and she’ll make it work with someone else, and I’ll just be sitting here wondering what’s wrong with me that she couldn’t make it work with _me._ ”

“Oh, baby, no,” Liam says. He lets her go, and she settles back against the cushions and looks at him. He rests his elbows on his knees and inhales.

“Look,” he says. “She did a terrible, cruel thing to you. You’re going to want to -- you’re like me, and you’re going to think, like, what did I do, what could I have done -- the answer, love, is nothing. The answer is sometimes people just don’t treat you how you deserve. And all you can do is protect yourself as best you can.”

“Okay,” Mia mutters, and lets out a sigh. “Um, I’ve got something else to tell you...”

 

*

 

Louis gets home at nine. Liam is waiting for him in the darkened foyer, and stops him right after he gets his jacket off.

“What’s up, Payno?” he says, in that breezy way he has lately.

“Harry’s pregnant.”

Louis freezes. It’s almost comical how still he becomes, right in the middle of unlacing his work shoes.

He laughs; it’s more of a scoff.

“No he isn’t,” Louis mutters. “He’s what, fucking -- forty-five? No he isn’t.”

“Forty-four, Louis, I'm the one who’s forty-five. He'd frozen some of his eggs, apparently.”

Liam watches him tighten up and withdraw.

“He’s definitely pregnant,” he says, knowing this will bother him -- wanting to wound Louis in a way he never has before, not because he wants Louis to _be_ wounded but because he wanted to be matched and met in his own woundedness. “Far along enough to tell Mia, anyway. He did today.”

“Why’d he tell her _that?”_ Louis says sharply, straightening up. “Before either of us?”

“‘Cos she got in a row with him earlier, ‘cos she was upset about something else.”

Louis kicks his shoes aside. “About what?”

“She found out her girlfriend’s been cheating on her,” Liam says; softly, because Mia’s in the dining room waiting for them. “She went and confronted her at her job.”

Louis gapes at him.

“Christ, why is this the first I’m hearing about this? Where was I?”

Anger and restrained annoyance come to a head in Liam.

“Same place you always are!” he explodes. “At _work_!”

Louis looks blindsided. There’s really nowhere for the conversation to go, after this, so Liam turns heel and heads back into the dining room, his heart racing with vented anger.

 

*

 

Dinner is awkward.

Louis tries to talk to Mia about what's happened, but she rebuffs him in annoyance, telling him she doesn't want to talk about it anymore. Once they sit down, he keeps glancing at Liam, trying to gauge his mood, but Liam won't look at him. He just keeps stabbing at his pork chop, his face inscrutable under his beard.

When Oliver gets back from rugby practice, crashing into the house yelling that he's home, it's a massive relief.

“Come eat dinner!” Louis shouts.

“I'm sweaty, I want to shower,” Oliver calls back. “Put it aside for me?”

“No, come eat dinner with your family.”

Oliver heaves a sigh that echoes in the foyer, then comes into the dining room, tossing his gym bag onto the floor and taking a seat next to Mia.

“What's up?” he says to her, seeming to miss that she's in a rotten mood.

Mia glances sidelong at him.

“I'm getting a new sibling,” she says drily.

Oliver gapes at her in horror, then turns to Louis. “Wait, _what_?”

“Not us, don't be daft,” Louis says hurriedly. “Harry’s pregnant, apparently.”

“How?” Oliver says, pulling his jacket off and glancing between the three of them. “I'm guessing it's not the regular way?”

“No, he froze his eggs, I guess,” Mia says, pulling her hair up into a bun and tying it off. “I dunno, I already know more about this than I wanted to.”

“Isn't he sort of old to be pregnant?” Oliver says.

Liam shrugs.

“He doesn't _look_ that old, at least,” Mia comments.

“He's had work done,” Louis tells her.

Mia smirks in amusement; he’s glad he could wipe the dour sorrow off her face for a moment, even if he had to be bitchy to do it.

“We've all had work done,” Liam says, clearing his throat and cutting a sideways glance at Louis.

“Tasteful work,” Louis hurries to say.

“So, it's a test-tube baby?” Oliver says.

Liam nods, still staring dourly at his pork chop without eating it.

“That's so weird. Imagine knowing they made you in a lab.”

“Better than being conceived on a bus, honestly,” Mia mutters.

Louis shoots her a glare. “Can we not, at dinner?”

“Wait, you were conceived on a _bus_?” Oliver exclaims. “Like… what, a _tour_ bus? Gross!”

He glances between Louis and Liam.

“Where’d you make me at?” he says, with a sort of morbid curiosity in his voice.

“That is absolutely none of your business,” Louis says, and then Liam replies, “A yacht, we think.”

Louis gapes at him.

Liam looks back at him mildly. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Gross,” Oliver mutters, shaking his head and digging into his potatoes. “Got something against beds, Dad?”

“Can everyone please, just…” Louis trails off, glancing at his watch. In the time he's been sitting here, he's gotten two hundred emails. It makes him queasy to know that. “Can we have a normal, polite evening?”

“I'm wondering the same thing,” Mia says, “can any of my families fucking be normal?”

Her chair scrapes loudly against the wood of the floor as she gets up.

“Don't swear at dinner, please,” Liam tells her, sounding rather checked-out about it.

“I'm not hungry,” she says. “I'm staying here tonight, but I just want to be left alone.”

“That's fine, love,” Louis says. “Let me know if you change your mind, I'll bring you up something.”

Mia’s nose twitches and her eyes well up. “Thanks, Dad,” she murmurs in a scratchy voice, then pushes open the saloon-style doors and heads upstairs. In the quiet house, her small feet sound terrifically loud on the parquet, and then on the stairs.

Oliver continues eating, in the oblivious way of a teenage boy. The only noise from the table is clinking silverware.

 

*

 

Zayn doesn't get home until nine. Cala has had dinner, had some practice with Harry reading in English, and is sound asleep by the time he walks through the front door.

Harry greets him in a withdrawn way that Zayn immediately notices.

“What's wrong?” he says, taking Harry by the waist.

Harry clears his throat. “How's your dad?”

“Same as he always is, lately,” Zayn says wearily. “What's wrong?”

“How's your mum?”

“Harry,” Zayn says, looking at him intently and cocking his eyebrow. “C’mon…”

“I need you to take my side with your daughter,” Harry says, folding his arms.

Zayn smooths his thumbs up and down the dip of Harry’s waist. “What are we talking about, here?”

“Mia. Mia coming to our house when I wasn't home, apparently dismissing our nanny for the day, and taking Cala to the park without telling me,” Harry says.

He pulls away from Zayn and walks through the front hall toward the sitting room. Dark walls tower over him, heavy with all those ancient paintings of the sea and the hunt that he isn't allowed to take down and replace with modern art because they're historically significant. This museum of a fucking house that they have to preserve just because some earl used to live here. He feels extremely claustrophobic right now.

Zayn follows him, close on his heels. “Harry, Harry…”

Harry collapses down on the couch, kicking his boots off and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“What happened?”

“I told you, I came home and Cala was gone!”

“Did she leave a note, or summat?”

“She texted me,” Harry says, lowering his hands and looking at Zayn, who’s perched on the cushion next to him with a warily expectant look on his face. Harry knows from looking at him that he's going to waffle and protest if he's asked to take a side, and he's already exhausted just thinking about that.

“Alright,” Zayn says dubiously.

“I didn't get her text. She should have waited for me to respond, or called me --”

“She just took her to the park?”

A car alarm goes off on the street outside, and they both jump.

“Zayn,” Harry says tersely, “I don't care if she took her ten feet down the fucking road, I came home and our daughter had vanished, and it scared me! And she was totally unapologetic!”

“Where did you go this morning?”

At this, everything comes rushing painfully back to him. Harry slowly raises himself off the couch and stands.

Zayn looks up at him, his lips parted and his eyes wide. “Babe --”

“It doesn't matter where I went,” Harry snaps. “Take my side. Side with me over her.”

“Harry, Harry, we haven't got to do this, ‘ave we?” Zayn pleads, clasping his palms over his thighs. “Come on --”

“Side with me,” Harry says coolly.

“She's my daughter --”

“ _Side with me_.”

“Harry, please --”

Harry has had enough. He walks away, shaking his head. Zayn bounces to his feet and follows him, calling his name again.

At the base of the stairs, Harry wheels around.

“Don't come upstairs,” he says. “Don't come to bed tonight… Sleep in the guest wing. Or on the couch.”

Zayn sighs. “You're -- seriously? I'm on the _couch_?”

Harry doesn't want him to be. He wants to go to bed with him and pull him close, tell him that he lost one of their babies again and be held and reassured by him. But he refuses to entertain Zayn’s coddling his grown adult daughter at the expense of his pregnant, grieving boyfriend. Zayn has to learn that there's no place for this shit in their house. He has to be a united front with Harry.

Harry takes a breath and walks slowly up the stairs. At the top, he turns and sees Zayn, looking woebegone and lost at the bottom.

He has a pang of regret; he aches to tell Zayn what happened this morning. He continues on, anyway, goes into their bedroom and climbs into their bed. The sheets have mercifully been changed.

Harry goes to lie face-down, then remembers that he's pregnant and lies on his back instead. He stares up at the ceiling. He's too tired to cry.

This bed's too big without Zayn in it, he thinks.

 

*

 

Louis is squirreled away in his den, watching some mindless television show where people get awarded a thousand pounds for every punch they can take, when his watch dings, telling him the front door is buzzing.

He waits a few minutes, assuming Mia has ordered takeaway or something. When his watch continues to ding, he heaves a sigh and gets to his feet, swaying tipsily. This is the first time he's stood up since he started drinking after dinner.

He goes to the front door and finds Zayn slumped heavily against the doorway, his dark eyes tired.

“Hey,” Louis says with mild concern, beckoning him in. “What's up?”

Zayn heaves a sigh as he steps into the foyer, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it aside. Their robotic personal assistant skitters by and snatches the jacket up, carrying it to the coat closet.

“Well, apparently,” Zayn says, “I’m just, like, an insensitive arsehole and the worst person alive.”

“Oh, shit, you too?” Louis chirps, slinging an arm over his shoulders and guiding him toward the den.

“Are we both in the doghouse?” Zayn says, glancing at him as they walk through the quiet hall.

“Sounds like it.”

They settle onto the leather couch in the sunken center of Louis’ den. He's got a fire going, and the dark walls are lit up with bright crackling.

Louis rests his elbows on his knees and glances over at Zayn, smiling.

“So, I'm not supposed to know this, really, but... congratulations.”

Zayn smiles, in a sort of bittersweet way. “Thanks,” he says softly.

Louis studies him. “You don't look as chuffed as I expect.”

Zayn inhales through his nose and sighs. “I'm, um -- hey, d’you have anything fun that isn't alcohol?”

Louis stands, wincing as he engages his arthritis-ridden knees. He fetches his snuffbox and brings it back to Zayn.

“Real weed,” he says, popping it open. “None of that MHRA-approved candy nonsense. And real smokes, too.”

Zayn groans in appreciation, pulling out a cigarette, the grinder and the bowl. “I love you,” he says.

“I reckon you're in a shrinking minority there, mate,” Louis says, as he settles back onto the couch.

“What's goin’ on with you?” Zayn says, tipping the contents of the grinder into the bowl. There’s a familiar _shick_ sound as he lights it, and then he takes a long hit.

Louis sighs. “Our daughter’s mad at me, for starters.”

“‘Arry, too,” Zayn says in a thick voice as he coughs on the smoke.

He passes it to Louis, who takes a hit and then squints at him. “Harry’s mad at me?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Sorry. Harry’s mad at Yas, I mean.”

“I don't know about that bit,” Louis says. “I know she found out Harry’s pregnant, and that her shithead girlfriend cheated on her.”

“What?” Zayn exclaims, and coughs harder. “Fuck, that explains a lot.”

“Tell me what you know, so we can piece things together.”

Zayn rubs his stubbly jaw. “Ahh… I dunno, I spent all day with me dad -- who's not gettin’ better, by the way --”

“Fuck, Zayn, I'm sorry…”

He shakes his head. “It's alright… Um, I dunno, I get home and Haz freaks out on me ‘cos apparently Yas came by our place and took Cala to the park, and she texted Harry but she didn't make sure he saw it or nothin’, so he thought she'd like, disappeared, and it worried him -- I got the impression he just wanted her to apologize, but she didn't.”

Louis sighs.

“I feel like normally she would,” he mutters. “I feel like she's just had an awful day.”

“She's been havin’ a hard time lately in general, mate.”

Louis takes another hit off the bowl. “I know.”

“And it's been a problem with them for ages,” he continues. “Harry and Yas, the Cala thing. Harry’s so protective of her, and Yas takes it personally, like he's saying she shouldn't be in her life, or she isn't really Cala’s sister, or like he don't want her around. And Harry -- he's not the most, like, forthcoming about shit like this.”

“No,” Louis agrees. “He's not.”

Zayn sags against Louis’ shoulder and lights a cigarette. Louis slides down in his seat, and they lean on each other, taking comfort in the warmth of each other's bodies.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” Zayn whispers. “You can't tell anybody.”

“Of course,” Louis says. He feels the weed, now, making his limbs heavy and his mind foggier.

“First thing is…”

Zayn ashes onto his couch.

“Cheers,” Louis says.

“Sorry… give us an ashtray, then.”

“Actually haven't got one. Liam threw them all out.”

“Well, you reap what you sow, mate.”

They grin at each other. Zayn’s grin fades quickly, and he stares at the cigarette in his hand with an expression that grows steadily darker.

Louis nudges his knee. “Out with it…”

“Harry had a miscarriage,” Zayn mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “About four years back. When we were adoptin’ Cala. We didn't know he was pregnant, and then we’re on a plane from Palestine, like, and he comes back from the bathroom all pale and tells me he's bleeding. And we couldn't do nothin’. Just kept his head on me lap ‘til we landed and I like, stroked his hair and told him it’d be alright. Then we get back, and…”

Zayn ashes his smoke again. His voice is thick, but he doesn't cry. Louis watches him in sorrow.

“Zayn, I'm so sorry,” he says softly.

“Doctor said there was nothin’ we could’ve done,” he mutters. “We just sort of stopped talking about havin’ kids of our own. I dunno why. We could have tried again. Harry just didn’t respond when I brought it up. So I stopped bringing it up.”

“What happened to make you decide to try?”

“He got a letter from the egg bank, like, oh, we've got your eggs, want ‘em? And I s'pose we just got carried away in the excitement of it.”

Zayn tips his head back against the couch.

“He kicked me out 'cos I wouldn't side with him," he says. "And I'm scared to go home, ‘cos I have a feeling he’s extra upset about somethin’ that might have happened this morning, and I'm a coward for this, but I don't want to find out I'm right.”

Louis squints at him. “What do you think happened?”

Zayn heaves a sigh.

“Doctor told us two of the embryos took,” he says. “So, like, twins. But then she said that one was small and weak and we'd probably lose it. And I'm scared that happened, and ‘e didn’t tell me. I'm scared he had another miscarriage, and I'm scared I'm the arsehole here ‘cos that didn't occur to me when I got home from me parents, ‘cos I was so wrapped up in stressin’ about them. So I might have just gone home to him with him in the lowest mood possible, and not given ‘im the one thing he asked me for, then left him all alone.”

Louis squeezes Zayn’s bicep. “I am so, so fuckin’ sorry. That's all, just… awful. I had no idea.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Harry never wants anyone to know this shit,” he says hoarsely.

Louis sighs.

“On one level, I get it,” he says. “But keeping things like that locked up…”

“He tells his mum, and his sister. But like, not his friends. Not his actor friends, not our mutual friends, not our parent friends, not even you two or Niall.”

“Why?”

Zayn snorts mirthlessly. “I mean… you can imagine why he wouldn't tell _you_ this shit.”

Louis feels terribly guilty, then. “Right.”

“Nothin’ on you personally,” Zayn says.

“I get it.”

“Plus, if any of this got into the rags, it'd kill him. He'd never trust anyone again.”

Louis sighs.

“He's just been so withdrawn lately,” Zayn says. His jaw twitches. “He's so anxious about this, he's pulled away from the world. I miss ‘im.”

Louis nods and rubs at his own stubbly cheeks. “I sort of feel the same,” he murmurs. “Liam's done the same thing to me, lately.”

“Shit, really?”

“I guess not lately. Been months, really. I think -- I dunno, back in June he really cut back with working, ‘cos we hadn't been seein’ each other much. And, like… I didn't. If anything, I've been workin’ more, since I just merged two littler companies with mine. And I guess that upset him, that I didn't cut back as well, but he didn't _say_ anything. He's just been in a strop lately -- I thought it could be any number of things. But today he let me have it, and he never does that. And Mims -- she left some crazy message with my assistant, like, ripping into me for workin’ too much.”

“Louis…” Zayn hesitates. “This’s been a problem for years, and you know it.”

Louis’ throat tightens. He glances toward the flickering fire.

“I always thought it was like, just a funny flaw,” he mutters. “Like how Liam’s a nag, I'm a workaholic. I always -- they always had my time. Still do. Any football game, rugby game, any work event Liam had, I'm there. It's just -- I dunno. Lately around here, I feel sort of useless. Liam's like -- he won't talk to me, and Mia’s off on her own for real, and finally spending more time with you than with us, which I totally support, but…”

“It's a change,” Zayn says gently.

“It is. I miss her. And Oliver is busy constantly, he's got a million friends and I can barely keep an eye on him -- fuck.” He rubs his eyes. “It's just been easier to not be here. I know that sounds awful. I thought I was too old now, to like, do the easy cowardly thing.”

“You're never too old for that,” Zayn says with a weak laugh, and hands him the bowl. “Apparently.”

“This cashed?”

“There's still some at the bottom.”

Louis takes a final long hit and sets it aside, curling up against Zayn’s chest. Zayn wraps an arm around him and strokes his hair.

“We haven't had sex in ages,” Louis says in a small voice. “Six months… six fucking months. That feels crazy to even say. I dunno how that happened. It started off just, like, we didn’t have time, ‘cos Oliver had playoffs, and my work was ramping up, and Mia was graduating and moving out of uni. We still kissed and touched an’ all that. But then, like… ‘round the end of May...”

He shakes his head. He still isn’t sure what happened; it’s a blur of good intentions and bad communication. Unspoken words, wrong assumptions. His own arrogance.

“We always, _always_ had sex. Even when we were fightin’. Only time was like -- right after the kids were born, but we still touched each other. I don't even see ‘im with ‘is clothes off anymore. We just sleep next to each other. I miss him.”

Zayn rubs his back in gentle circles, like he's a kid. “You need to be the one to reach out. You know how Liam is. ‘E’s just feelin’ ignored right now, and that makes him into a crazy person.”

“ _I_ feel ignored, _I_ feel abandoned,” Louis cries. “That makes _me_ into a crazy person! It's like -- it's like he's hurting both of us on purpose, just so I'll blink first.”

“Then blink first,” Zayn says softly. “You love him. He's your partner. He's your man.”

Louis huffs. “I could tell you to take your own advice.”

“And I will,” Zayn says. “I'm gonna go home and apologize, and make it right, and remind ‘im how much I love him.”

“Good,” Louis whispers.

They sit up, intertwined with each other, exchanging bleary eye contact. Zayn leans in and gives him a kiss on the forehead. He moves to withdraw, but Louis grabs him around the back of the neck and keeps him there, nuzzling his throat a little. He misses being touched in such an intentional way. 

Zayn separates them and bops him on the nose. “Bad boy...”

“No, you're the bad boy,” Louis mutters, grinning.

“Still miss you sometimes, you know that?” Zayn says, pulling him in again, so Louis' head is against his shoulder.

“Me too,” Louis whispers.

Zayn exhales softly.

“And I feel like shit that our daughter’s going through all this…”

“We didn't have it much better at twenty-two, did we?” Zayn says reasonably. “Well, I guess your bad time came at twenty-three…”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, I guess at the very least she isn't pregnant by this arsehole.”

“We hope.”

“Don't say that,” Louis admonishes. “Christ. No, she's got an implant.”

Zayn sighs with relief. “Good… Wait, was that a dig at me?”

“What?”

“‘Pregnant by this arsehole’?”

Louis laughs and draws back from him, stroking his hair. “Hey, have I told you you look handsome with the grey in?”

“Little shit,” Zayn says, grinning. “Alright, I need to get out of here. I'm regrettin’ that I let you smoke me out.”

“The car’ll drive itself, mate,” Louis says, and he stands, pulling Zayn to his feet.

“Yeah, but Harry’ll know,” Zayn says. “And I don't think he'll like much that I ran to you.”

They stumble out of the den, clinging to each other. Louis waves his wrist and says into his watch, “Bring Zayn his coat, please.”

The robot zips out of the other room, dragging the coat by one sleeve. Louis and Zayn watch as it screeches to a halt in front of them, having pulled the jacket along the ground the whole way. It's got Sheba’s hair on it. Louis laughs and pats it on the head.

“Sometimes I reckon we ought to bring back human butlers,” Zayn mutters as he picks it up.

Louis sees him to the door. As Zayn is walking down their drive, he calls, “I'll make it right if you make it right, alright?”

“Talk to Yasmeen, too,” Zayn hollers back.

“I will!”

They wave to each other.

 

*

 

Harry is almost asleep when he hears the front door open.

He sits up, the sheets tangled sweatily around him. It's a balmy night; he's got the heat up too high. He fixes that on his watch and sits up, waiting.

Zayn peeks his head in the door, looking contrite. Harry is deeply relieved to see him.

“C’mere,” he says softly.

Zayn slips out of his shoes and climbs onto the bed. Harry wraps his arms around him and clings to him, and they fall back against the pillows together, Harry’s nails digging into his back.

“Hey, love,” Zayn murmurs to him.

“Hey,” Harry says throatily, burying his face in his shirt. He smells like weed and Louis’ cologne; Harry looks up and meets his eyes.

“I went to talk to Louis,” Zayn says, as soon as he does. “About Yas.”

“Okay,” Harry says, too tired to object. “Makes sense.”

“You're not upset?”

“No,” Harry mutters. “You talk to your baby mama about your baby, I get it…”

“I'm sorry,” Zayn says, kissing Harry’s forehead and temples. “I'm sorry I didn't side with you. It was wrong of her to scare you. It was a mistake, it wasn't malicious, she was upset about somethin’ else -- an’ I just want to say that, ‘cos I really want you two to have a harmonious relationship, like. But it was wrong of her and I was wrong for not agreeing with you. I was just frazzled ‘cos of me dad… I'm sorry, babe. I love you, alright?”

“Zayn,” Harry whispers. “I need to tell you --”

He cuts himself off and lies back against the bed, tearing up. He feels like a hostage to his hormones, and he hates it.

Zayn lays his body down over Harry’s, covering him, nuzzling his neck.

“I think I know what you're gonna say,” he says, his voice tight.

Harry begins to cry.

“Shh,” Zayn says, kissing his jaw. “Shh, love, it's alright. We’ll be okay…”

Harry rolls onto his side, sobbing so hard he can't catch his breath. Zayn holds him.

It isn't very long before he stops; the storm passes quickly over him, leaving as soon as it came on. He wipes his eyes, shuddering.

“I thought I'd be ready, since they warned us,” Harry chokes out. “I feel like a crazy person, I didn't even let myself get attached, I haven't even been thinking of myself as really pregnant, but I was so upset anyway --”

“Of course you were upset,” Zayn says, sounding tearful himself.

Harry goes quiet.

“Why didn't you call me?”

“I dunno,” Harry says, shaking his head. The damp pillow is itchy under his jaw, and his cheeks are itchy where tears have dried. “I dunno. I wanted to say it in person, and then we fought…”

“Is the other baby okay?”

Against his better judgment, Harry lets himself feel a little spark of joy.

“Yeah,” he murmurs happily, rolling over and looking Zayn in the face. He reaches up and strokes his jaw. “Big and healthy.”

Zayn exhales in relief.

Harry’s smile widens. “D’you want to know something else?”

“What?”

“It's a boy.”

Zayn looks shocked, and then a grin spreads. “A boy?”

“Your son," Harry says, his voice low and soft, gazing with love at Zayn.

Their hands meet simultaneously at Harry’s abdomen. He still isn't really showing, but there's a spot below his belly button that seems warmer and firmer than usual.

“A boy,” Zayn breathes. “Shit. I can't even imagine that.”

“I've been trying not to,” Harry admits. “There's -- I dunno. Today, I keep thinking of like, what he'd look like, what he'd be like, but --”

He exhales and shakes his head.

“Hey, love,” Zayn whispers, kissing him. “What's life without a little hope, yeah? Where's my sunny smiley optimist I love so much?”

“He’s done a runner,” Harry mutters. “You've got cranky fraidy-cat Harry, now. Sorry.”

Zayn lies down next to him and spoons him. Harry relaxes in his arms, letting his body untense for the first time all day. He forgets himself, just feeling Zayn’s fingers card through his hair and brush against his scalp, and the planes and curves of Zayn’s wiry body against his own.

“I love all my Harries,” Zayn says sleepily.

Harry feels comforted, finally.

“I love you too,” he says.

 

*

 

Louis crawls in bed next to Liam, who's turned away from him. He can tell from how Liam is breathing that he isn't asleep.

He waits a few minutes before he bothers him. Sheba is lying at the foot of their bed, curled up on their dark red comforter. She usually sleeps with Oliver, but sometimes on warm nights like this, he sends her over to them because they've got the big bed.

Louis sits, watching her as she shifts in her sleep, dreaming. She's twelve, now. Old for a big dog.

“Liam,” he whispers. “You awake?”

Liam stirs.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment.

Louis lays down next to him, staring at the back of his head, wondering what he's thinking.

“I don't want to be in a fight with you,” he whispers. “I really don't. This is awful.”

Liam makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I don't think we're in a fight,” he says. “I think you know what I want. I want you to be a husband to me… if you're not going to do that, I won't be a husband to you, either. That's harsh, but what am I supposed to do, Louis?”

“I haven't been a _husband_ to you?” Louis says, hurt and anger rushing up toward his throat. “I -- come on, mate.”

“Have you, lately? This summer, you've just -- you disappeared!”

Liam sounds unbelievably wounded. Louis swallows.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I reckon this is just a communication lapse we let go too far. I'm sorry. I love you more than anything... You're my partner. I don't want to fight, please.”

“Then fix it,” Liam mutters. “Show me. Show me you don't take me for granted. ‘Cos that's really how I feel, right now. And I don't take _you_ for granted, do I?”

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, you don't. I'm sorry,” he says in a small voice.

“Don't tell me sorry. Show me.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees. “Okay.”

He lies down, pulling the covers up over himself. Sheba crawls up the bed and lies between them.

“I love you, too,” Liam says after a moment, in a scratchy voice. “I always do. I'm just hurting.”

Louis’ jaw locks up, and his eyes get hot. He rolls onto his side, facing away from Liam.

 

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 15, 2038

Louis brings Mia tea in bed before he leaves for work. She's awake, sitting up in bed with that glazed stare that indicates she’s looking at a social media overlay with her contact lenses. Louis never does that -- it feels too alien to him.

Mia taps her watch when he comes in, evidently dismissing the display.

“What was that?” he says, handing her a mug. She sits up.

“Me being a crazy person,” Mia says, huffing out a mirthless little laugh. “Combing through our mutual friends’ blogs, trying to figure out who exactly she's cheated on me with…”

“Oh, babe, don't go down that road,” Louis says, sipping his own tea. “You don't want to know. Just move on from her.”

“I feel like it's like a scab,” Mia says. “I always pick my scabs.”

She falls quiet, looking down and going pensive. The sun is shining in that bright autumn way through her gauzy white curtains. It's about to be a beautiful day.

“I want you to make up with Harry,” Louis says gently.

Mia nods, biting her lip. “Yeah, I want to apologize.”

“Well, good.”

“I know it's like… scary,” she says. “Being a parent. I know you overreact when you think your kid’s in danger. I just didn't think it out that much.”

Louis reaches out and strokes her hair. “People goof up, kiddo, it's alright. You weren't in your right mind, you just wanted to spend some time with your sister, I get it.”

She sighs.

“And honestly, Harry is overprotective of her,” Louis adds. “And for all his good qualities, sometimes he's an uptight git about things. You didn't hear that from me, though.”

Mia laughs.

“He loves you, though,” Louis tells her, his voice more serious. “You know that, right? When you were going over there to stay for the holidays the first time, he was texting me non-stop, like, What's Mia’s favorite type of biscuit? What's Mia’s favorite holiday movie?”

Mia laughs again, more joyfully this time.

“It's probably complicated for him right now,” Louis says, and hesitates. “I won't get into detail, but -- they had a hard time with getting pregnant. And I reckon -- I dunno. Harry’s -- there's some… with me and -- um. About how I got pregnant with you, and he was still in love with your dad, and...” He breaks off awkwardly. “Me and him have never really discussed this, but --”

“I get it,” Mia says softly.

“Which is not to say it isn't childish and wrong of him to take that shit out on _you_ ,” Louis continues, “but he's only human. I reckon -- when you're a person like Harry, you're so used to being able to empathize with everybody and be patient with everybody, when there's something like that where you're hurting too much to, you kind of get a blindspot about it. ‘Cos you can't quite believe you'd be in the wrong.”

Mia sniffs. “You're really wise, Dad.”

Louis laughs. “No, I'm rather an idiot, it's just I've known these boys for nearly thirty years.”

She grins at him. “No, you're wise.”

“Alright,” he demurs. “Drink your tea. I'm heading out.”

Her face falls. “To work?”

Louis stands and nods. “But I've got a surprise for you all, with that,” he says. “So don't look too sad.”

She knits her brow in confusion, but he leaves without saying anything else.

 

KENSINGTON, SEPTEMBER 15, 2038

Harry sleeps in very late. The sun is high in the sky by the time he wakes, yawning and stretching.

“Oi, good morning, sleepyhead,” Zayn’s voice says from the intercom app on his watch. “Come on downstairs.”

“Can I wee, first?” Harry says, amused. “Brush my teeth? Wash my face?”

“If you must,” Zayn fake-huffs, and rings off.

He sounds excited about something, so Harry dresses quickly and forgoes picking out today's jewelry, since that always takes him ages. He ignores several texts from his manager and a few others from his agent, and hurries downstairs.

Cala meets him at the bottom, smiling widely. She's holding what looks like cue cards.

Harry hesitates. “What's up?”

“Ta-da!” Cala says, and lifts the cards so he can read them.

He comes closer to look at the first one, sitting on the bottom stair and reaching out to ruffle her dark hair.

 _I’ve loved you since we were 18_ , it says.

“Oh, Christ,” Harry exclaims, but his heart is fluttering excitedly in his chest. Zayn laughs loudly from the other room.

“Next one, please,” he says to Cala, who proudly shuffles them.

_You’re the first person I ever really loved, and you're still the love of my life_

Harry’s breath catches.

“Next one,” he says.

_I know you aren't into the idea of a piece of paper telling us what we mean to each other. But I really want you to be my husband_

“Next one, bug…”

_You know I'll be your life, your voice, your reason to be_

Harry starts laughing breathlessly. “Will you fuck off with the lyrics!” he shouts.

“Close the door,” Zayn sings, his voice echoing through the house, ravaged from years of smoking but as beautiful as it ever was. “Shut the light out…”

“Stooop!”

“One more,” Cala says impatiently.

“Alright, show us,” Harry says, grinning.

_Please stop making a fool of me and marry me already xx_

Cala then bends down to set the cue cards on the floor. She turns her back to Harry, and points at the bow tied around the end of her plait.

In the center, tucked around the knot, is a gorgeous amethyst ring.

Harry swallows. He very gently removes the bow, slips the ring off and places it on his finger. He tips his hand back and forth, happily admiring it.

Cala is watching him expectantly. He smiles at her, then stands and takes her by the hand, leading her to the sitting room where Zayn is waiting.

He stands there, dressed a bit formal in slacks and a jacket, his hands in his pockets and a plaintive expression on his face.

“Hi,” Harry says, a little emotional.

Zayn comes over and kisses him, long and deep. They cling to each other hard, although Zayn handles him as gingerly as he can.

After a few moments of this, they separate, and Harry gazes at him.

“It's like _Love Actually_ ,” Zayn says. “Right? With the cards?”

“I got that,” Harry murmurs, beaming.

“You really like _Love Actually_.”

“I really do.”

“You're wearin’ it,” Zayn says, glancing down. “... That mean yes?”

“Of course _yes,_ ” Harry says, kissing him on the nose and wrapping his arms around Zayn’s shoulders.

“Thank God,” Zayn whispers, squeezing him by the waist. “‘Cos lookin’ up _Up All Night_ lyrics made me want to die a little bit.”

“That's the goofiest thing you've ever done for me,” Harry says, gazing at him, lovestruck.

Zayn winces.

“I love goofy!”

“I know you do. So I can be goofy for you, yeah?”

Harry kisses him on the lips. Zayn presses his hands to Harry’s stomach, rubbing his thumbs over him.

“Our little Malteser,” he says to the baby.

“Can I be the ring bearer?” Cala says, looking up at them.

“You don't want to be a flower girl?” Harry says, glancing at her.

“No,” she says in that serious way of hers. “I want to be the ring bearer.”

“Sure,” Zayn says, smiling. “Why not?”

Cala nods in a way that's comically officious for someone her age. “Good,” she says.

“You did a great job, by the way,” Harry tells her. “I'm very proud of you. Got the order right and everything.”

“I believed in her,” Zayn says, stroking her hair. “My partner in crime.”

She reaches up to hug them, and they both bend to embrace her simultaneously.

“My family,” Harry murmurs, burying his face against Zayn's shoulder. Zayn kisses Cala on the head, and then Harry.

 

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 16, 2038 

Liam gets back from the studio around six. He had a meeting run long, which was especially annoying because he was functionally ornamental in it to begin with.

He walks into the foyer and blinks. His entire field of vision is a riot of white; it takes him a moment to adjust.

Louis is standing at the stairs, surrounded by hundreds of bouquets of lilies, looking boyishly unsure of himself.

“Hey,” he says.

“What's this?” Liam says, looking around. There are lilies all down the hallway, lining the staircase, piled in the sitting room. And Louis is clutching one in his hand.

“C’mere,” Louis says, beckoning him over.

Liam walks to him, slowly, trying not to knock any of the bouquets over. When he reaches him, Louis looks up at him with anxiety in his eyes. Liam slides his arms around Louis’ waist. It feels so good to touch him.

“What is this?” he says softly, studying his husband.

“Remember, at our wedding?” Louis says. “The lily…”

“Of course…”

“When I put this order in, they thought it was for a funeral,” Louis says, and laughs. “I had to tell them, no, my husband just thinks they're pretty.”

“I do,” Liam says, his heart clenched in his chest. “I like lilies.”

“There's some roses in the bedroom,” Louis murmurs. “I know you like those, too. Um, so…”

He takes in a breath.

“I’m pulling back, at work,” he says.

Liam exhales in relief and presses his forehead against Louis’. “Really?”

“Really. I've stepped down as managing director, effective immediately. And I’m taking some time away from the company as a whole.”

Liam feels hazy, like he's in a dream. He gazes at Louis, barely comprehending.

“When I come back, I’ll keep on with my chairman duties, but… I want -- I _need_ \-- to spend more time with you, and I need to be around more for Oliver. It's overdue, honestly.” Louis’ voice cracks a little. “I'm burned out.”

Liam kisses him on the mouth. Louis presses flush against him, hands in his hair. Liam holds him hard by the hips as they snog deeper and deeper, their facial hair rubbing together, pressing their tongues into each other's mouths.

They kiss for several minutes before Louis draws back, his pupils large.

“And we're going away for a few weeks,” he breathes. “To a little cabin in Wales. Nobody but us. Sort of a late anniversary gift, ‘cos I know it was bullshit that we just went out to dinner for our eighteenth. I regret that somethin’ awful. Okay?”

“Okay,” Liam whispers, nuzzling him.

“I love you,” Louis says, sounding emotional. “I love you so much, Payno, don't ever think otherwise. You're my boy, you always have been.”

Liam cups his face in his hand, stroking his jaw. Louis rubs up against him more needily.

“Don't _let_ me think otherwise,” he says plaintively. “Please, Louis, I can't do it. You and the kids, that's my whole life. You're my entire life.”

“I know,” Louis says, looking miserably guilty. “I know, you're mine, too…”

Liam heaves a shuddering sigh and buries his face against Louis’ throat. Louis kisses his cheek.

“A few weeks, you said?”

“Aye, two weeks.”

“Alright… who's got Oliver?”

“His friend Jamie. Returnin’ the favor for how we always used to host the sleepovers. His mum’s pretty strict, I'm hoping it'll do him some good, actually. He'll be happy to see us when we get back...”

Liam runs his fingers over Louis’ back, leaning on him heavily, not wanting to let him go.

“I'll tell the studio, I guess,” he says.

“Already called them, lad. Already got you off the hook. We leave in two days.”

Liam chuckles. “So _that's_ why I felt so useless in my meetings today!”

Louis nods, grinning.

“Think of everything, don't you?”

“I do,” Louis murmurs happily, kissing him some more.

 

*

 

Mia stops in a Tesco Express to get a coffee before she heads over to Zayn and Harry’s. She spent the entire day with Sasha, drinking beers and punting around the South Norwood lake in a little boat they rented. It was emotionally cathartic, and she feels more like a human being now, but she needs to sober up.

As she waits in line, a tabloid cover catches her eye. It's a photo of her dad looking cranky that swaps every few seconds to one of Harry on the set, looking mildly upset about something.

HARRY & ZAYN SHOCKER: BREAK-UP IMMINENT, says the headline,

Mia picks it up. The material is soft like paper, but not quite the same. You can sort of feel the fiber optics; they’re grainy under your hands.

Underneath the headline, smaller in bullet points, it reads: _Harry can't handle Zayn’s lies and cheating, Zayn’s secret shame: he's drinking again, Tears and anger: Harry breaks down on set!_

Mia puts it back, rolling her eyes. Harry isn't even filming anything right now; he hasn't since February.

“Seven-fifty,” the bloke says when she sets her coffee down.

“For coffee? Shit,” Mia says, holding her wrist out. He scans her watch.

“You look familiar,” he says, glancing up at her. “You been in here before?”

“I've got one of those faces,” she tells him as she walks away.

 

*

 

Zayn’s car isn’t in the drive when she gets there, which is sort of how she wanted it. She wants to talk to Harry alone.

He seems surprised to see her, but welcomes her in cheerfully like nothing happened between them. She glances at his stomach, which is still flat but maybe beginning to soften.

Cala is lying on the floor in the sitting room, coloring in a coloring book, kicking her feet back and forth. Harry asks her to give them some privacy, and she starts to argue with him, but he calmly stands his ground with her.

“You usually let her get her own way,” Mia says afterward, surprised.

“Well,” Harry says, with his hands on his hips. “Trying to, um… not do that so much, anymore.” He chuckles. “Tea?”

“Yeah, tea. Thanks.”

He disappears for a while. Mia stares at the paintings on the walls, trying to sober up. It occurs to her that nearly every piece of art in this house is by someone who’s dead, whether for centuries or decades. Even Harry’s stuff is by dead blokes. Haring, Basquiat, Warhol. He keeps most of that at their place in Los Angeles, though.

Harry brings her tea, made the way she likes it. She stares into the cup. He sprawls out on the couch next to her and nudges his knee with hers.

“Hey,” Mia says, distracted.

“You smell like alcohol,” he whispers.

“Oh,” she says, embarrassed. “Shit. I was just day-drinking with one of my friends.”

Harry clears his throat. “It isn’t my job to lecture you,” he says. “But you do know your dad’s an alcoholic.”

“I’m fine,” she says, her face growing hot.

“I know. It’s just it’s four in the afternoon.”

“I’m fine.”

“I believe you, I promise. Just making an observation.”

“Shannon and I had a bad breakup,” Mia tells him.

“Your dad told me, yeah,” Harry says, studying her. “I’m sorry, it sounds like it was really painful.”

Something about his manner makes her anger ebb away, even as she wants to hold onto it.

“Shit happens,” she mutters.

“No, that’s fucking awful,” he says softly. “You’re allowed to be upset. Sorry I didn’t know, yesterday. We might’ve had a totally different conversation.”

She shrugs. “We might have.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says, smiling gently. “I wouldn’t’ve told my stepdad about something like that, either.”

Something about the way he says _stepdad_ sounds different. Not as approximative. She glances at him, and then down at his ring finger. She didn’t notice the new one, at first, since he always wears loads of rings.

“Oh,” Mia says, shocked. “Is that, like, recent?”

He fiddles awkwardly with it. “As of this morning, yeah.”

“Wow. Congrats.” She hesitates. “Sort of didn't think you two ever would.”

Harry eyes her. “Hey,” he says. “You’re twenty-two years old. We’ve known each other a while. Nothing’s going to change, here.”

“I know…”  

“Don’t have to call me Dad, or anything.” He grins.

“You sure?” she ribs him. “‘Cos I’m awfully hard-up for dads.”

He starts laughing.

“Padre? Daddio?”

He laughs harder. “Daddio, definitely.”

“How are you feeling?” Mia asks him. “You look a little peaky, no offense.”

Harry nods slowly. “I am a little peaky,” he says. “I, um… it’s been a rough pregnancy, so far.”

“Right. My dad sort of… intimated.”

Harry’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Have you put on any weight, like, at all? You look the same to me.”

He makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand. “Round five pounds, but, you know… I’m tall.”

“It’s weird to think of my dad with a new baby,” Mia says, folding her arms and leaning back across the couch. “It’s weird that he was my age when they had me, though. Maybe he’s a less weird age to be a parent now. Maybe --”

She stops herself. Harry observes her.

“It'll be easier for him this time,” she says quietly. “I know… I dunno. Him and Louis were still fighting a lot, then. I don't think it was an ideal situation. I feel like he was sort of lost.”

Harry reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “Your dad adores you, you know. You’ll always be incredibly special to him.”

“I know,” she says, and smiles. “Am I giving you a sob story? I don’t mean to.”

“I’m here if you have a sob story,” Harry tells her intently. She sips her tea; she always feels awkward when he turns that laser-focused _I care about you as a human being_ gaze on her.

Sasha has a huge crush on Harry, and has since they were kids in his acting class; she once said, dreamily, “He makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world!” and Mia had stared at her and said, “You _like_ feeling like that?”’

“I appreciate it,” she says, and then hesitates. “Sorry if we’ve been rowing, these past months. I’m starting to realize I may have been sort of a pain in the arse for a while there.”

“It's alright,” Harry says, although he looks relieved to hear her admit this. “If you can’t be a pain in the arse to your family, where can you be one?”

They fall into comfortable silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Mia sees him tentatively rest his hand on his stomach.

 

*

 

As she rides the Tube home, Mia gets a text from Oliver.

 _I think things are cool w the dads again_ , he says.

 _Thank god_ , she says back. _what makes you say that?_

_lol I just got home and theres flowers fucking everywhere and theyre being gross in the kitchen and snogging while they make dinner so_

_Yay!_ Mia replies, grinning to herself as she sways with the motion of the car, packed in against other commuters. _Ew but yay_

 _Also theyre going on holiday for like half a month and dad is stepping down as MD at the agency,_ Oliver says. _he said he wanted to tell you himself but oh well_

_Whoaaaaa!! wtf!_

_Yea i know. he was like im going to be around all the time now! i was like haha fuck im never going to party again_

_it'll be nice to spend more time with him though_ , she says.

 _No yeah,_ Oliver agrees. _Definitely_

 

GOWER PENINSULA, SEPTEMBER 17, 2038

Louis stops right before he walks into the cottage and tries to kick the caked mud off his boots. It doesn’t budge, so he slips out of them and stands, sock-footed, banging them off the stone wall.

Liam is climbing slowly back up the hill toward him, lugging both of their bags.

“You didn’t have to get mine,” Louis says, glancing up as he gets closer. “I was coming back to the car.”

Liam sets them in the grass and then leans in, kissing him. “I wanted to.”

“Alright,” Louis says cheerily.

Liam pulls him in, his hands finding Louis’ little waist under his thick cable-knit jumper. Louis cups Liam’s jaw in his palms, and Liam sucks hard on his bottom lip the way he likes.

After a little snogging, Liam pulls back. “So… I thought you said _cabin_ , Tommo,” he says, laughing, and then gestures to the cottage, which is a large, modern stone and glass fixture perched in the rocky green hills, overlooking the beach.

“I asked Carly to book a cabin!” Louis exclaims. “I wanted to rough it with you... There’s a fireplace in the bedroom, at least.”

“The bedroom, huh?” Liam says, giving him a crinkly-eyed grin and then slinging their bags back over his shoulders and leading the way into the house.

“This was the only place they had on _this_ beach on two days notice,” Louis says, following him in. On the inside, it’s a gorgeous split-level with pearly surfaces and all the latest tech. “And this is the best surfing beach.”

“Actually, I take it back, this place is cool,” Liam says, laughing. “We can go camping some other time.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a lot of free time, now,” Louis says softly, his hands on his hips. He still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he’s stepped down. It’s like tonguing at the hole in your gum where a tooth was.

He goes over to the couch and, with his foot, hits a panel in the floor. A sleek cylinder rises up steadily. Louis eyes Liam.

Liam looks apprehensive. “Do I want to know what’s in there?”

“Oh, you do,” Louis says. He hits a button and the lid pops up, revealing a bottle of red wine inside, and two chilled glasses.

Liam grins.

“Want me to start a fire?” he says, as he heads for the stairs with their bags.

“You read my mind,” Louis says, following with the alcohol.

 

*

 

They end up hanging out in bed for the rest of the evening. They talk about maybe surfing, but the drive up here was hard on Liam’s back, and Louis’ knee is bothering him, so they wash down some joint medicine with their wine and decide to just play cards and shoot the breeze while the fire crackles merrily in the background.

“I still think we should learn bridge,” Louis says. “We could have bridge dates with Zayn and Harold. Or Andy and Mellie. Or one of our sisters and their spouses. Anybody.”

Liam scratches his nose. “ _I_ think you’re trying to distract me, here, ‘cos you’re losing.”

“Am not! I can make it back.”

“Doubt it. I’ve gotten pontoon six times now,” Liam says, holding up six fingers.

Louis huffs. “Could have sworn it was five.”

“I see you trying to figure out how to cheat at this,” Liam says, grinning. “I see it on your face, clear as day.”

“Am not,” Louis protests, even though this is entirely accurate. “Alright, hit me again.”

Liam deals him another card. It’s a nine, which knocks him out. He swears.

“Aw, sorry, babe.”

“You don’t _look_ sorry,” Louis grumbles.

Liam smiles and moves closer to him, wrapping his arm around Louis’ waist and pulling the two of them down onto the bed, so Louis is on his back and he’s between Louis’ thighs. Liam slides his hand up between Louis’ legs, ghosts his fingers over his cock and then pushes his shirt up, trailing his fingers over Louis’ bare skin.

Louis shivers and arches his back. He gazes up into Liam’s eyes.

“Hi honey,” Liam murmurs.

“Before you shave it,” Louis breathes, “I wanna feel that beard on me thighs.”

“Can do,” Liam says, his voice rumbling in his chest. He pulls Louis’ shirt over his head, then presses his lips to Louis’ throat, sucking hickies into his skin.

Louis moans and wraps his legs around Liam’s lower back. “Missed you,” he whispers.

Liam groans with pleasure in response. He slides his hands between Louis’ back and the bed, so he can maneuver Louis in his arms, then sucks hickies down his collarbones to the top of his chest, and then he slides down to kiss Louis’ hips and stomach.

Louis missed this so much. He missed Liam’s worshipful intimacy: how he still seems to marvel at his body, how he’s madly in love with every freckle and tattoo, every scar and stretch mark. He tips his head back against the bed, luxuriating in Liam’s touch.

The wine has settled into his muscles and his gut, and the longer Liam’s body is against his, the more he wants Liam inside him. But Liam seems determined to suck him off, first. He tears Louis’ trousers and briefs off of him in that caveman way Louis loves.

He takes Louis’ cock into his mouth and then, as promised, begins to rub his beard on the sensitive skin of Louis’ inner thighs. Louis grips Liam by the hair and writhes, moaning.

Liam sucks at him like a starving man, like he’s been ten days in the desert. The lewd sight of him -- bearded and pink-cheeked and crazy-eyed with joy from them being reunited, as he eagerly slobbers on his cock -- it’s almost more than Louis can bear. He’s going to come fast, he knows; he hasn’t been touched other than by his own his hand for so long.

Six months. Six months of exhausted, perfunctory jerk-off sessions, mostly in the shower after a long day of work or before the start of one, leaning on the wall with his arm, feeling horrendously lonely. Having his husband lick his cock with adoration on his face feels so fantastic, he can’t believe he ever took it for granted.

He gets close very fast, and whimpers to Liam that he’s going to come. Liam, like a bastard, takes his mouth off his cock and starts nuzzling and sucking at the insides of his thighs, to edge him. Louis groans in frustration and grabs himself by the base, trying to guide it back into Liam’s mouth. Liam laughs, a low rumble, and takes him in again, sucking him harder and knuckling gently behind his balls.

Louis comes in his mouth, gripping his hair as hard as he possibly can. Liam swallows and comes up between Louis’ legs, covering his smaller body with his own, holding him close. Louis grinds their pelvises together, rubbing himself against Liam’s stomach to enjoy the aftershocks.

Liam is a sight; all dark-eyed and intense, with come in his beard. He’s also rock hard. He reaches onto the table for lube, and starts fingering Louis without any preamble. Louis drops his head back against the bed and gasps high in his throat, then starts begging him for his cock.

“Hang on,” Liam whispers, pressing their foreheads together, running his hands through Louis’ hair. “You’re tight…”

“I want you so fuckin’ bad, so bad…”

Liam makes a soft sound.

“I missed you too,” he says throatily.

“God, Liam,” Louis says, clutching his face. They stare at each other with mixed lust and sorrow. “Liam…”

He rides Liam’s fingers eagerly and Liam exhales, fingering him harder. Louis is a wreck from how bad he wants it; he writhes and whimpers underneath his husband. With his free hand, Liam grips Louis’ arse, squeezing it hard. Louis feels a pulse in his spent cock. Some of why he's been avoiding sex with Liam was a deep-down fear Liam had stopped being attracted to him; he's breathlessly grateful to know otherwise.

Liam slides into him, and he lets out a long, low groan, and then a moan as Liam starts thrusting. It's a little uncomfortable, since it's been so long, but he wants it so fucking bad that his thighs are trembling. Liam lays over top of him, kissing him as Louis grips his hair with one hand and drags his nails up Liam's back with the other.

“Liam,” Louis cries out, “Liam, Liam --”

Liam kisses his jaw, rubbing their facial hair together. Louis clings to him, clenching around him, moaning breathily in his ear. He grips Liam by the arse, trying to leverage him deeper.

Liam clings to him harder, his strong arms tight around Louis’ body and the breadth of his ribcage, nuzzling at him desperately as he thrusts.

Louis feels his muscles slacken when he comes, and they lie there, breathing heavily and stroking each other's hair and cheeks.

“Hey,” Louis says softly, gazing at him. Liam gazes back with a puppyish expression, then presses his lips to the hollow of Louis’ throat. Louis smooths his hand over Liam’s hair.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“Love you too, Tommo,” Liam says immediately, his voice low with orgasm.

 

GOWER PENINSULA, SEPTEMBER 18, 2038

They surf all morning, feeling even sorer than usual for the multiple rounds of sex the previous night, but happy enough to ignore it.

The surfing is surprisingly good. They're both used to the Pacific, so they freeze their arses off at first even in their wetsuits, but soon they're used to it and like a pair of old pros.

Louis feels freer than he has in years. He's been working for so long that it isn't really sinking in for him, how unencumbered he is. He's still grieving for what he's about to lose, and how much of his identity is going to fade the second his nameplate comes off his office door. He's going to have to do a lot of mental rearranging, he's going to have to pick up some hobbies and maybe go back to therapy for a while.

But he looks out over the choppy gray water and the gorgeous green cliffs of Wales, at the adoring face of his husband, and it doesn't feel so overwhelming.

Louis wipes out badly when they're close to shore. He's in a barrel wave when it closes out and sends him spinning, filling his sinuses full of saltwater. He has no idea where he is for a terrifying ten seconds as he's beaten toward shore, fumbling for his tether, and then his board cracks him in the forehead.

Through his haze of panic, he realizes he's got to stop fighting and let the waves take him in.

Louis is spilled out onto the sand and crawls up the beach, coughing and spitting up freezing briny water, trying not to vomit.

Liam calls his name, but all he can do is wave his hand to indicate he's okay. In moments Liam is back on the beach, running out of the surf and tossing his board aside. He gently turns Louis over and starts hitting him hard on the back. Louis coughs up more water.

“Fuck!” he exclaims, finally able to talk. “Fuck, bollocks.”

“You alright?” Liam says, his dark eyes wide. “Jesus, I turned around and you'd disappeared.”

“Yeah, just caught a bad one,” Louis mutters, and starts coughing again. His throat is burning. Liam helps him sit up, then pulls him into his arms. They're both shivering.

“Wanna go in?” Liam says, kissing him on his head despite his soaking wet hair. “Oh, Tommo, your forehead’s bleeding…”

Louis touches it and looks at his fingers. “Shit,” he says with a laugh.

Liam hoists him to his feet and takes his board, carrying both of theirs under one arm so Louis can lean on him as they walk up the hill. Louis presses his hand to the middle of Liam’s upper back, sagging against his shoulder.

“My Scout,” Louis says hoarsely.

“Save your voice,” Liam tells him, stroking his shoulder.

They get inside, and Liam fusses over him. Louis lets him. He fetches him a glass of water, gets him a plaster for his head and tucks him into bed upstairs. Louis lies there, toasty and comfortable as Liam stokes the fire.

“I’m going to be home a lot, now,” he says, his voice all scratchy. “Loads more free time. We’ll have to think of activities.”

“Hmm,” Liam says, poking the flames. “We could start writing music together, again. We haven't done that in ages.”

Louis smiles. “I like that idea... But anything else? Anythin’ domestic? What do Karen and Geoff do?”

Liam shrugs. “What do Dan and Jay do?”

“Mmm, hang out with my siblings and my mum’s eight thousand grandchildren, mostly. They aren't alone much. I mean, even Ernest’s got a kid, now.”

“Right, old Jeffo.”

“Jeffrey the blob.”

“Aww,” Liam says, laughing heartily. “So _mean_ …”

“I mean, nothing against me brother, but his baby looks like a Yorkshire pudding, truly.”

Liam comes back over to him and lies next to Louis on the bed, stroking his still damp hair. Louis motions for him to get under the covers and they lie there, cuddling. Louis rests his head against Liam’s chest. His eyelids are heavy.

“We’ll get it sorted,” he murmurs. “Our new routine.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, kissing him on the head and stroking his cheekbone. “I ain't worried.”

 

LEEDS, SEPTEMBER 20, 2038

Harry’s swing goes wide, careening far right into the trees that line this stretch of the course on either side. He tips his visor lower over his eyes and frowns into the bright sunshine.

Niall winces. “Take a mulligan, lad.”

“I'm shit today,” Harry grumbles.

“You're swingin’ like your balance is off,” Niall comments.

Harry glances over at him and nods slowly. He’s clearly got something to tell him; Niall is just patiently waiting for him to come out with it. Harry can sometimes be a pain in the arse like this.

He eyes him. “Sleep weird?”

“Huh?” Harry says, digging around in his pockets for another ball.

Niall brings him one. He takes Harry by the shoulders, bodily turns him to face him, then drops it into his palm. Harry watches all this happen with a bemused look. “You sleep wrong?”

Harry hasn’t mentioned Zayn yet, today, which is odd for him. Niall’s been wondering if they’re in a fight. Harry always sleeps like shit when they’re in a fight.

“Maybe,” Harry says, smiling. “Maybe I'm just getting stiff in my old age.”

“No, _I'm_ stiff in me old age,” Niall ribs him. “You're yoga bendy man. You're made of rubber.”

“Untrue!” Harry protests, as he sets up his shot. Niall squints into the sun, over the rolling green expanse of the course. There's a lot of people on the course today; he hopes Harry’s delay doesn't make them start stacking up with anyone. “My back is still all sorts of fucked up, it has been for decades.”

“I thought you were gettin’ those injections for it.”

Harry clears his throat. “I actually had to stop recently,” he says, in that coy way of his.

Niall waits for more information. It doesn't come. “Alright,” he says, shrugging amiably.

Harry tees off. The ball arcs cleanly as it sails. It's a good shot. Niall claps him on the shoulder.

They pile into the golf cart and zip away down the slope. Niall takes a curve a little hard, and Harry grabs him by the thigh.

“Careful,” he says, sterner than usual. Niall glances at him, and slows down.

When they get to the next hole, Harry finds his ball and then takes a seat in the grass next to it, fixing it with a pensive look. His driver lays abandoned beside him.

Niall agreeably goes and takes a seat next to Harry.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” he says, gently.

Harry glances up and gives him a smile.

“I wanna tell you something,” he says. “But I think I’ve got to tell you a sad thing, too, and I dunno quite how. ‘Cos it’s really overdue.”

Niall returns to his earlier thought, that Zayn and Harry might be fighting.

There was a time where he would have been a little relieved to hear they were on the outs, or even breaking up. Not because he didn’t want Harry to be happy, but because -- as he, Barbara, Liam, and several other friends of Harry’s had privately agreed -- Zayn has historically been a bad bet and seemed likely to devastate Harry in the long run.

Niall still remembers the night Zayn climbed up onto a tour bus in 2014, covered in hickies and reeking of pussy, and walked past him with a pleased look on his face, just a few months after he’d got engaged to Perrie.

And there were nights around then, too, when Niall had the room next to Harry’s, and he heard Zayn creeping into his room, heard them whispering, heard Harry turn his betrothed ex away, again and again.

Though it was a crushing betrayal for him, Niall wasn’t quite as surprised as everyone else when Zayn scarpered and Louis turned up pregnant. For a long time he’d adored Zayn as a brother, but maybe having his own flawed brother gave him a perspective no one else has. You can love someone and still see the nasty bits of them. After Zayn left the band, it grew very hard not to mentally associate him with Greg.

All of this should have been consigned to the distant past for Niall by the time Harry and Zayn got back together for good. But Zayn hadn’t seemed to have changed, really. He’d just left another broken engagement in his wake, even if it was broken by her cheating, not his. And even that supposed fact was murky: the rags printed story after story that Zayn was fucking a guitarist bloke he’d been touring with, and this betrayal was what had sent Nina straight into the arms of various rappers.

Harry denied this vehemently. He wanted to believe more than anything Zayn was a new man. Unfortunately for him, no one else did. Even Louis has at several points in the past admitted privately to Niall that he wasn’t sure if monogamy is something Zayn was built for.

“If I thought he wouldn’t cheat on me,” Louis had said once, wistfully, “I dunno. I might have married him, honestly. I wanted that stability for Mia. But I was never gonna be sittin’ at home, pregnant, while he sowed his oats. I really think he’d have done that to me. And I’d have wrung his neck for it.”

When their relationship was new, the tabloids had constant eruptions of infidelity hysteria: _ZAYN BACK TO HIS OLD TRICKS, HARRY DEVASTATED!, STYLES CRIES WHILE ZAYN LIES, SEXTING SCANDAL: WHILE THE HARRY’S AWAY, THE ZAYN WILL PLAY, HARRY EXPLODES ON HIS BOYTOY EX-BANDMATE IN PUBLIC: READ WHY INSIDE!_

Every single one of these stories was just too silly to be true, and yet Niall habitually read them in the line at the shops, just in case.

At the same time, Niall grew quieter with Harry, and let him talk and vent. He heard about all the ups and downs. He was supportive, but kept his own counsel, waited for the shoe to drop.

Weeks turned into months, and months turned into years. Zayn didn't cheat, and Harry didn't leave. They adopted a daughter, who Niall loves, dotes on and considers a cousin to his son and stepson -- this more than anything else dragged him and Zayn back into each other’s lives.

It was difficult, at first. Every other pair in the band had stayed in touch except for the two of them. Even Liam and Zayn were getting along well, at that point, and there had once been a time when they were all convinced the two of them would go to the grave without patching things up.

Niall is a forgiving person, generally, but he’s also a pretty practical one, and he never saw much reason to bring Zayn back into his life. As the years went on and his memory of the good times with Zayn grew fuzzier, he grew to see him as a human laundry list of crimes against his bandmates: _left all of us with no warning,_ _got Louis pregnant, called Louis bitchy on Twitter, made Harry cry, made Louis cry, punched Liam, insulted our music, instigated a ridiculous custody battle, was trying to fuck Louis after he married Liam, skipped out on his parenting duties for a whole summer, made Harry cry again, was a mean alcoholic for years, suspiciously came back into Harry’s life right after he dumped his fiancée…_

He did send a card when Zayn was in rehab. That was it, as far as communication. He’d left no forwarding address, so Zayn couldn’t respond, or anything. All he’d said was _Get better soon. Love Nialler xx_

Once Cala came around, Zayn endeared himself to Niall by showing his awareness that any friction between them would upset Harry. One of the first things he’d said to him was, “Look, we don’t have to be best mates again, but it’d make Harry happy if we could be friendly, like.”

Niall shrugged. “Sure. I want him t’ be happy, too.”

Zayn had seemed genuinely hopeful about this, which made Niall thaw despite himself.

Things still aren’t completely healed between them, and may never be, but they’re dad pals now: they grill out while their kids play in the yard and Barbara and Harry discuss the fashion industry. (Most of the time Zayn wanders off to join these conversations, and Niall is left alone with the steaks, but he doesn’t hold it against him). They all go to the little get-togethers Louis and Liam have. One Direction has begun to feel like a nice but hazy dream.

Harry and Zayn finally both seem truly happy, like their best rhythm is with each other. They hold each other up and keep each other in tune. They're still handsy and kissy after all this time, like the lovesick teenagers they used to be. They prefer each other's company to anyone else's; they'll spend hours in the walk-in modeling clothes for each other, trying on outfits. Harry likes to tell a story about how the two of them once did this for so long that they nearly missed the Grammys.

So now Niall hates the idea of them hitting the skids. He knows long relationships go through their tough times -- after all, he’s married the same woman twice over (“‘Cos it apparently didn’t stick the first time,” he’d joked at their second wedding, to laughs from everyone and an eyeroll from Barbara) and he knows Louis and Liam just went through a bad patch, although he got different stories from each of them on what caused it.

There’s been a few near-miss incidents with Zayn over the years; most memorably, an ex-model he was sponsoring had begun to send him loads of lewd messages, and come onto him when he had her over to talk sobriety. Zayn had told Harry immediately, and confessed that he may have been unintentionally flirty and given her the wrong idea. Harry had been quick to forgive him and just asked that it please never happen again (to Zayn's credit, it hasn’t).

Harry told Niall about all this a month after the fact; Niall had screwed up his face and sucked in air through his teeth, but otherwise refrained from comment. 

Another time, Zayn had abruptly flown all the way out to Los Angeles to visit Harry on set after, apparently, “getting nervous” because he was “too horny to think straight”. Niall had never asked Harry what ‘thinking straight’ meant. 

These were both years ago, though. Harry can be hard to read when he wants to be, but Niall can't imagine that after all this time, Zayn has gone and strayed. He wonders if maybe Zayn's fallen off the wagon, instead.

Whatever is weighing on Harry's mind, it's got something to do with Zayn. He keeps fiddling with his rings and staring off into the horizon, in a way Niall intimately recognizes after nearly thirty years.

“Just tell me,” he says to Harry. “You’ll feel better when you do.”

Harry heaves a long sigh and lies back against the grass, his polo rising up and exposing his hip tattoos. He raises it up a little further.

“Do I look pregnant, at all?” he says softly.

This is the last thing Niall expects him to say, and because he presents the concept in such a weirdo Harryish way, Niall isn’t even sure what he’s saying at first. Then the penny drops.

“D’you --” Niall splutters. “Are you s’posed to?”

He looks at Harry’s middle. There’s a very slight curve to it, like he's eaten a lot of bread at lunch, but the idea of Harry being up the pole doesn’t really compute -- he’s forty-four, for starters.

“I should think,” Harry says, laughing. “I’ve just hit my second trimester.”

_“What?”_

“D’you remember when I froze my eggs?”

Niall flops onto the grass next to him, and Harry wraps his arm around him and pulls him close.

“We aren't goin’ t’ finish this golf game, are we?” Niall asks him.

Harry chuckles again. They're close enough that Niall feels it vibrate in him. “Maybe not, sorry.”

“Alright then. Yeah, I remember that.”

“So…” Harry takes a deep breath. “Um. Whenever you asked why me and Zayn didn't have kids of our own, I've been like, I dunno, it just never felt right, or I'd like to adopt more, or whatever… And the second one is sort of true. But mainly it's ‘cos…”

He clasps his hands gently over his stomach, and glances down at his intertwined fingers.

“I had a bad miscarriage a few years ago, and it scared the absolute shit out of me.”

“Oh, Harry,” Niall says, sitting up, his heart sinking. “You never told me, lad.”

Harry looks at him with his large eyes, then shakes his head, his hair shifting against the grass. “I never really told anybody besides my family.”

Niall reaches out and takes Harry’s hand, then squeezes it.

“Should’ve said somethin’,” Niall says quietly. “That must’ve just killed you, t’ go through that…”

Harry drags in a breath. “I should’ve. It was when we were adopting Cala, so it was easier to just… I dunno, we were so busy, and you were busy too. I thought I'd tell people. It was so strange… I just couldn't. I couldn't find the words. We didn't plan that baby, either, it just happened. I didn't even know I was pregnant ‘til I lost it. So it wasn't like -- I dunno.”

“So what happened, here?”

“I did IVF,” Harry murmurs. “They put three in, and, um, two took. But then I had my first ultrasound and they told me, like, look, you'll probably lose the smaller twin. And… I did. Near a week ago, now.”

Niall’s heart clenches at the resigned sound of his voice.

Harry sits up, too, then, and Niall wraps an arm around his shoulders. Harry glances up at him with glittering eyes.

“I'm sort of angry about it,” Harry says quietly. “I was sad, but now I'm like -- I dunno. I’m angry? It feels unfair, is all, that I had to go through that twice. And I'm so scared for this one, now.”

He stares off into space, his eyes bright. He isn’t crying, though.

“I love babies,” he says. “I really did want a baby of my own. I wanted to have Zayn's baby. I just wanted to adopt first, is all. And then… fuck. I dunno.”

Niall rubs his back in gentle circles.

“I suppose that’s all behind me, now.” His lips tilt up a little. “I’m trying for it to be, anyway.”

“So you’ve got one in the oven, then?”

“One in the oven,” Harry says, and he glances down and cups his hands to his flat stomach, like he’s trying to will a baby bump from the ether. “I wish I was showing.”

“You’re all lanky,” Niall points out, gently. “Maybe it’ll take a bit.”

Harry pouts. “I know…”

“Is Zayn excited?”

Harry’s head pops up and he grins, his teeth flashing in the sunshine. “Yeah, he’s absolutely thrilled.”

Niall beams back at him. “Well, congratulations, mate,” he says, and he stands up, brushing the dirt and grass off his trousers. He extends a hand to Harry and pulls him to his feet. “Really, that’s fantastic, I'm so fuckin’ happy for you.”

“It’s a boy,” Harry says, his grin widening.

“Ayyy! Welcome to the club!”

“The son club?”

“The son club!”

Harry picks his driver up off the ground and sets up again. “I’m definitely coming to you for advice,” he says.

“That’s going to be a good-looking kid,” Niall says. “That's for damn sure.”

“Oh, flatterer."

“Eh, I flatter your boyfriend as well, don't I?”

Harry shuffles his feet, then hits the ball. It sails beautifully over the course. Niall whistles.

“My fiancé,” Harry says, cheekily.

Niall is blindsided again. He gapes at him. “What?”

“Fiancé,” Harry calls over his shoulder, as he leads the way to Niall’s ball about a hundred feet away.

Niall jogs after him. “Stop just repeatin’ the word fiancé!” he shouts. “Get back here!”

 

*

 

Zayn is in his study, reading a book at the piano when Harry gets home. He looks lovely in a dark red flannel and jeans. Harry thinks he may have just gotten back from an AA meeting. He usually plays piano after those.

“Hey,” Harry says from the doorway. “Kiddo still at school?”

Zayn nods slowly. “Staying late for English tutoring…”

Harry approaches him, and he sets the book down. He grips Zayn by the shoulders and starts massaging him, glancing out the window over the streets of Kensington. There's a few people sitting in the green space of the traffic circle; one of them is playing a saxophone. He has a fleeting urge to go outside and see what's up. He wishes sometimes that he were far less famous.

“How was your golf game?”

“Good, I'm creeping up on Niall. Made a ninety.”

Zayn pats his thigh. Harry snorts and perches awkwardly on his lap, clinging to his neck. He kisses Zayn’s sharp jaw; Zayn studies him with catlike eyes.

“I told him everything,” Harry says, resting his forehead against Zayn’s temple.

Zayn reaches up and strokes his shoulder. “Good, good. Everythin’?”

“Everything.”

“Glad you're finally up to talking about it to ‘im.”

“Well,” Harry says, “part of healing, right?”

Zayn’s hand drifts down, and he starts absentmindedly rubbing his palm over Harry’s abdomen. Harry places his hand on top of Zayn’s. They rub their thumbs over each other.

“Love you,” Zayn says, sounding sleepy about it, like his love for Harry is a warm bath he’s sliding into.

“I love you, too,” Harry whispers, pressing his lips to Zayn’s forehead, over the faded scar from his car accident.

It would be nice, he thinks, if he could open Zayn’s head, unspool his thoughts and clear out all the sadness and weariness of middle-adult life. Then pop the top of his skull back on, good as new.

“I'm going to figure out lunch,” Harry says, balancing on Zayn as he slides off of his lap. Zayn glances up at him.

“Your trainer left a shitload of meal prep things the other day,” he says.

Harry makes a face. “Fuck that. I'm not in training for anything right now. I want, like… hmm. An entire salmon, or something.”

Zayn grins at him. “Baby wants an entire salmon?”

“Baby wants some protein. Whether or not it's got to come as a salmon, I dunno. But Harry wants salmon.”

“Alright, well, leave a little for me, you maniac,” Zayn says, glancing at his watch.

Harry pauses in the doorway. “Hear back about Big Fat Quiz?”

“Not yet,” Zayn mutters.

Harry drums his fingers on the arch and clears his throat, then goes downstairs.

 

LONDON, OCTOBER 1, 2038

Mia picks up Oliver from Jamie’s in the morning on the day Louis and Liam are due home. They end up pulling into the drive, cutting the engine and just shooting the shit for a while.

Oliver is glad she seems to be getting out of the funk she's been in since she finished school. He and Mia have always gotten along well, in a sort of rambunctious, cheeky way. They don't talk much about serious things, but when he really needs to, Oliver confides in her more than he does their parents. She's good for advice -- more jaded and cynical he is, but he needs that sometimes.

“Must feel weird you're getting a new sibling at, like, twenty-two,” he says, after they've gotten done discussing his recent difficulties with Claire.

She sighs. “Yeah. Definitely. I mean, it'll be born when I'm twenty- _three_ , you know? I’ll be -- well, when it's my age, I'll be however old my dads are now. Forty-five?”

“Fuck, that's so weird,” Oliver says, scratching his newly stubbly jaw. “You could be its mum.”

Mia makes a face.

“I always thought our dads’d have more kids. I'm sort of glad they didn't, but I thought they would.”

Mia glances at him. “You don't remember that like, whole year they spent going back and forth on having more?”

“What? No, how old was I?”

“Well, I was, um… I wanna say thirteen? So… seven?”

Oliver glances out the window at the front garden. Liam’s summer flowers are all dying off.

“No, I don't remember that,” he says.

“I dunno why they decided not to,” Mia says. “But I was glad they did, too. And I always knew Harry and Zayn would adopt more, but I'd sort of got complacent that they wouldn't have any? I dunno --” she hesitates. “Sometimes I think Dad should just quit while he's ahead. It's pure luck I don't have his kind of depression. I mean, fuck, sometimes I think I _do_ , even.”

Oliver doesn't quite know what to say to this; she looks pensive.

“Maybe it'll take after Harry,” he says hopefully. He likes Harry a lot.

He likes Zayn, too, but Harry is a more sunny person, and he still feels a bit weird about how long Zayn spent hoping his parents would break up. It makes him suspect Zayn must resent on some level that he exists, even though Zayn has always been perfectly pleasant to him.

Mia glances over at him and smiles. “Want to go inside? I was going to make macaroni cheese.”

Oliver pulls a face as he opens his door. “Um, your macaroni cheese sort of blows, no offense.”

“It does not!” she protests, following him up the drive toward the house.

“Can I make it, instead?”

“Ugh, if you insist, tosser…”

Their parents get home a half hour or so later, bursting in the door giggling and whispering to each other. Mia and Oliver go in the front hall to see what all the fuss is about, Oliver with the pot in his hand.

Louis and Liam are pressed up against the wall in the entryway, their bags abandoned willy-nilly on the floor, snogging each other with gusto. Oliver shudders and averts his eyes, continuing to stir the macaroni.

“Oi!” Mia calls. “Gross!”

Louis breaks away, grinning. “Hey, family.”

“I'm going back in the kitchen,” Oliver says, backing out of the room. “So keep snogging if you like, weirdos.”

“You should be happy your parents still love each other,” Liam informs him as they gather up their luggage.

“Love each other in private,” Oliver calls over his shoulder as he walks away. Mia snorts loudly.

He pops his head back in for a moment, though, and smiles at them.

“I did miss you guys a little,” he said. “Once I got bored of Jamie’s place.”

“Had to qualify it, did you?” Liam says, winking at him.

Louis laughs. “We missed you too, kid.”

 

OCTOBER 10, 2038

_Is Harry Styles finally pregnant and engaged?_

 

_The acclaimed actor and his ex-bandmate and boyfriend of nine years, Zayn Malik, were spotted out and about in London yesterday. Two things caught our eye -- a dazzling new ring on Styles’ ring finger, and what looked to be a baby bump under the fitted-cut jumper the slender Hazza had on._

 

_It would be the second child for the couple, who adopted 6-year-old Cala Malik-Styles in 2035. Zayn has one other child, who he shares with another ex-bandmate from One Direction: daughter Mia Tomlinson, 22._

 

_As for the engagement, the famously unmarried Styles and Malik haven’t said definitively if they ever plan on tying the knot, but never seemed to count it out completely._

 

_“You know, I guess it sort of got blown out of proportion,” Harry said in a red-carpet interview at the Academy Awards in 2036. “People think it’s a statement, or something… It’s really just, like, it hasn’t been the right time for it yet. Then, you know, our daughter came along and everyone started bothering us even more about it. And neither of us like to do things just because people think we ought to.”_

 

_A source close to the family wouldn't officially confirm if the two are expecting or planning to marry, but said, “I think there are some things they're saying loud and clear and everyone can draw their own conclusions.”_

 

_Representatives for Styles didn’t immediately respond for comment._

 

LONDON, OCTOBER 15, 2038

“Coming,” Louis shouts as he makes his way down the front hall amidst the echoing laughter of Liam, Niall and Barbara in the den.

He swings open the door to find Harry and Zayn standing there all couple-y, in similar leather jackets. Harry pushes a bottle of wine into Louis’ hands.

“We're regifting this, ‘cos neither of us can drink it,” he says cheerfully.

“Oh, cheers.”

“It's supposed to be very good, though. How was the holiday?”

Louis’ eyes trail down Harry to where his white tee catches on the curve of his belly, next to Zayn’s tattooed hand settled comfortably on the dip of his waist.

“Shit,” he says. “You really are looking pregnant, aren't you?”

Harry smiles. Louis smiles back at him, with some difficulty: he's experiencing a strange emotion right now, one he thought he'd put to bed years ago.

“It sort of just happened, this past week,” Harry says with delight in his low voice, glancing at Zayn.

“Just…” A grinning Zayn makes an exploding gesture with his hands. “‘Cos you weren't really showin’ at _all_ before.”

“No, not really at all.”

They both look back to Louis, clearly elated. He looks back at them.

“Well, I'm tall,” Harry says, chewing on his lip.

Louis clears his throat. “Hey, so come in, boys… the holiday was fantastic, thanks for asking.”

They follow him into the foyer, handing their jackets to the robot. Harry sways a little on his feet as he takes his off; he seems to be even more coltish than usual. Zayn reaches out and steadies him. Louis’ eye is drawn to the pendant swinging on his neck, down again to the small baby bump. Harry pushes his longish hair back from his face, and then his engagement ring becomes apparent, as well.

“And, uh, congratulations,” Louis says, trying valiantly to fight the entirely vestigial jealousy in his hindbrain so he can be kind to his friends, who are clearly overjoyed. “On gettin’ engaged, the baby, everything. I know I already texted you, but…”

“Thanks,” Harry says, a little emotionally, and then he comes over and hugs Louis. Louis squeezes him -- gently, of course.

Zayn is chasing after the robot, trying to get it not to drag his coat on the floor, so Harry takes this opportunity to whisper to him, “Hey, it's alright if this is a little weird for you...”

“No, no, it isn’t,” Louis assures him, lying through his teeth. “No, no, lad. I'm so happy for you, honest.”

He is happy for them, really. It’s just complicated.

They disentangle, and Louis reaches out to feel Harry’s stomach. Harry lights up and presses his hand on top of Louis’.

“I love this,” Harry says warmly. “I love that people keep touching my stomach… I love being pregnant. It's so cool, all of it.”

Louis makes a face. “Really?”

“Yeah!”

“So you're as big a weirdo as ever, is what you're telling me.”

Harry laughs one of his rich, head-tossed back laughs. “Essentially.”

Zayn comes back in, a little breathless from his chase. “Hey,” he says, looking fondly at them.

“Hey. Congratulations again, mate,” Louis says, glancing over at him and patting the warm swell under Harry’s shirt.

They exchange a bittersweet look.

“Thanks,” Zayn says, and leads the way down the hall.

 

*

 

“Uh, hmm,” Harry says, squinting at his card.

“Haven’t got all day, babe,” Zayn says, a bit anxiously. He leans forward in his seat on the couch beside the easel, pressing his palms together like he’s beseeching Harry. “Timer’s going.”

“This is a hard one!”

Louis leans against Liam, chuckling. “Just accept you’re never going to beat us, boys.”

“I’d like to at least beat Barb and Niall, this time,” Zayn says, gesturing at them where they’re cuddled up on the other couch.

Barbara and Niall look at each other and shrug.

“That's fine, we’re just here for t’ booze,” Niall says amiably.

Harry kneels down with some difficulty. He starts drawing on the tablet, in wide sketchy marker lines.

Zayn leans forward, squinting over the tops of his glasses. “Uhhh…”

“I’m not done!” Harry shoots back.

“Hurry.”

Harry finished and caps off the marker, then makes a grandiose gesture toward Zayn.

Zayn blinks at him.

“Babe!”

“What -- suitcase?”

Harry nods emphatically and gestures faster, getting to his feet.

Zayn shakes his head, staring up at him in bafflement. “Luggage! Travel? Suitcase! I dunno!”

“ _Zaaaayn!"_

“I’m sooo sorry,” Louis chirps in delight, pointing to the hourglass on the table, “but you boys are most _tragically_ out of time.”

“Nice, we’re killing them,” Liam says, and he and Louis high five. “One more and it’s ours.”

“Baggage!” Harry says, fondly exasperated, flinging the marker onto the couch.

“Oh, boo,” Zayn says, “boo, that’s a shit clue. Who would say -- who calls it _baggage_?”

“Should’ve done, like, emotional baggage,” Niall says.

“Yes, ‘cos that’s a much simpler thing to draw, Niall,” Harry says in amusement, his hands on his hips.

“I’m up,” Liam says, getting out of his seat. Louis leans forward, staring at him like a bloodhound. Harry settles on the couch next to Zayn, who slings his arm over his shoulders.

“Reckon Louis might take Pictionary too seriously,” Zayn mutters, eyeing him.

“Fuck off,” Louis says, without breaking his gaze.

Liam squints at the card in his hand. “Shit,” he says, and clicks his tongue off his teeth.

“Think abstract,” Louis tells him.

Liam makes a face and pockets the card. “Oh well. Here goes.”

He draws a prescription bottle, and then starts sketching out a face and a lab coat.

“Doctor!” Louis shouts.

Liam shakes his head and keeps drawing.

“Doc -- nurse? Oh, chemist! Chemist!”

Liam grins, starts nodding and caps the marker.

“That was like five seconds!” Barbara exclaims.

“Not even,” Niall says. “Fuck off, you two.”

“Dream team!” Louis says, grinning, jumping to his feet. Liam comes over and kisses him on the cheek, then they collapse back onto the couch in each other’s arms, Louis half on Liam’s lap. “We win!”

“I want a team switch-up,” Zayn grumbles. “No more couples.”

“Not you and Louis, either,” Niall says, gesturing with his beer. “‘Cos you’ve got your own mindmeld deal, right? No one who’s bumped uglies.”

“That’s a charming phrase, sweetie,” Barbara says, amused.

“Well, y’know.”

Louis and Liam glance at each other, thinking.

“Me and Niall?” Louis says. “You and Harry? Barb and Zayn?”

“That works,” Liam says.

“Oh, nice,” Niall says. “I can finally win one.”

Louis cracks his knuckles and points at Niall. They grin at each other.

Niall takes a card and starts laughing. “Oh, fuck. This is a shite one. Alright…”

He draws a skyline with extremely high buildings, with lines extending on either end. Louis squints at him.

“Skyline?”

Niall shakes his head.

“City?”

“We've performed here,” Niall adds helpfully.

“No talking!” Harry and Liam exclaim simultaneously.

Zayn gets up and goes over to sit with Barbara on the opposite couch; she pours him a glass of tonic water from the bar and they sit there, both looking very beautiful in the fireplace light that's casting shadows on their fine-boned faces. Liam goes over and takes his vacated seat next to Harry.

Niall rolls his eyes and turns back to the paper, drawing a cactus next to the skyline. Louis throws his hands in the air.

“Nearly out of time, Tommo!”

“Desert? Desert city? Big -- skyline -- oh, Dubai! Dubai!”

“Yesss!” Niall exclaims, capping the market and tossing it aside.

“I'm inclined to take that point off you,” Liam says sternly, “because Niall talked.”

“Oh, whatever, Dad,” Louis scoffs, as Niall tackles him back against the couch. They tipsily wrestle each other for a moment, giggling, and then settle back into their seats.

“Dubai is sort of a hard clue,” Harry says charitably.

Zayn gets the word cat, which Barbara guesses in a few seconds flat. Louis and Niall loudly chorus that this is a fookin’ joke, while Zayn flaps his hand in dismissal.

“Cat,” Niall repeats, shaking his head as Zayn collapses back onto the couch. “Maybe the easiest clue of all time.”

“Least it wasn't pussy,” Zayn says mildly. Barbara laughs.

“I’d have gotten that faster,” she says.

Liam gets up, eyeing Harry nervously.

“Come on, we've got this,” Harry says, flashing his dimples at him and resting his elbows on his thighs.

Liam looks at his clue, grimaces and makes a rather comical face.

“Inspiring a lot of faith in me, right now,” Harry says drily.

Liam starts drawing what looks like a bad approximation of Lou Teasdale. Harry squints at him and shakes his head. Liam draws her hair more aggressively. Harry gestures expansively in confusion.

“I dunno -- what, is that Lottie? What kind of -- stylist?”

Liam nods emphatically and windmills his hand.

“Makeup?”

“It's not Lottie,” Louis says, laughing.

“Don't help ‘im!” Zayn exclaims. “Shush!”

“Makeup artist. Stylist. It's not Lottie? Is it Gemma? Sister? Sibling!”

Liam is frantic now. He does a truly terrible drawing of a pair of scissors; Louis can only tell he means it to be scissors because he's been married to him for near on twenty years.

“Oh,” Niall crows, “out of time, boys.”

He and Louis high-five. Liam caps his marker and sighs.

“It was _Lou_ ,” he says. “Hairdresser, Harry, _hairdresser._ ”

“Absolutely terrible drawing of Lou!” Harry exclaims.

“What? It was a blonde woman, wasn't it?”

“Liam! We know so many blonde women!”

“Name one!”

“I named two!”

Liam collapses on the couch next to Harry, laughing. Harry starts laughing too, their shouting immediately forgotten.

“So, how's baby?” Liam says, glancing up at him.

“Good,” Zayn replies for him, sipping his tonic water.

Harry nods to corroborate this, and brings Liam’s hand to the curve of his belly. Liam gets a warm look, and strokes him with his thumb.

“It's a nice time, this,” he says, a bit wistfully. “Enjoy it.”

“I've gone really baby crazy, lately,” Harry admits.

“Haven't you _been_ baby crazy?” Louis says.

“Oh, it's much worse now,” Zayn says, laughing. “Every fuckin’ baby we see, he gets moony.”

“You know what cures that?” Barbara says, swishing her glass of wine around. “Labor and a newborn.”

Louis makes general noise of agreement.

“I dunno, I can't wait,” Harry murmurs, hands on his stomach, misty-eyed.

 

*

 

Louis goes into the kitchen to fetch himself another beer. From the sitting room down the hall, he can hear Liam, Barbara and Niall’s raucous drunk voices, and Zayn’s calmer sober one.

Harry slinks in behind him, bumping his hip off the counter.

“Oww,” he complains. “Never know where I am in space, lately…”

“You never really have,” Louis points out with amusement, taking the top off his beer and having a sip.

Harry rests his elbow on the island and leans slantways, his arrow of a body making a perfect diagonal.

“You really are fine?” Louis says, glancing him over. “Baby's fine?”

Harry smiles a little tersely and brings his hand briefly to his belly. “So... Zayn told you, did he?”

Louis’ heart sinks in his chest.

“It's just you've got that face on, where I can tell you think I'm a little fragile.”

Louis sighs. “Yeah,” he admits. “I -- he just wanted to talk to someone about it, I -- I dunno, Haz, we've got a kid together, we’ve been through a lot, we've got a certain trust with each other. I'm sorry we talked behind your back...”

“No, it's alright,” Harry says. He glances down, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I don't, um… I suppose I didn't want you to know because I sort of…”

He trails off. Louis watches him.

“Felt like a failure,” he says, finally, drumming his fingers on the marble counter. He looks especially melancholy in the dimmed kitchen, where the only light that's on is the little white one above the sink. Soft darkness envelops them, cloaking their bodies. “As an omega. As, like -- as the one who ended up with him. You know.”

Louis sucks in a breath. “Why are we always like this?” he says sadly. “Why do we do this? It isn't just Zayn, isn't it?”

“It's… something,” Harry says, his voice throaty and low. “I suppose deep down -- we’re nothing like each other, and maybe we want to be, sometimes.”

Louis snorts. “I don't think you've ever wanted to be like me, have you?”

Harry looks at him, all wistful doe eyes. “Louis… I may not have always agreed with you, or gotten along with you, but I’ve always, always looked up to you... You're well aware of that.”

Louis’ throat tightens up.

Harry comes around the counter and pulls Louis into a tight hug. They stand there, clinging to each other.

“I'm really sorry about the baby,” Louis says hoarsely. “Babies. God. I can't even imagine. I'm so sorry.”

Harry clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft, stroking Louis’ hair. “I'm just hoping -- I think everything will be alright with this one, but I really need it to be… this is like, my little light at the end, the way I can justify all this grief to myself.”

Louis draws back and looks him in the eye. “I think it'll be alright,” he says. “You're healthy, y’know? Better than any of us… never smoked, didn't do the hard stuff, eat healthy…”

“None of it’s a guarantee,” Harry says, and draws back from him. He looks resigned more than anything, which tugs at Louis’ heartstrings.

“I want this for you,” he says fiercely. “You deserve it so much, y’know? You both do.”

Harry smiles. “Thanks, Louis,” he says, his voice gentle and a little hoarse.

 

KENSINGTON, OCTOBER 29, 2038

Zayn arrives home annoyed after a very disappointing meeting with Channel 4, in which they informed him that their non-comedian guest this year would be twenty three-year-old pop sensation David Dorsey.

“We’re sorry, Zayn,” the bloke said kindly to him as he walked him back to his car. “It’s just, you know, we’ve got to pander to the kids.”

Zayn wants to protest that kids still like him (at least the ones that know who he is), that adults and kids alike think he’s cool, that he’d be funnier and more entertaining than this kid, that he was a pop act on top of the entire world while David Dorsey was still a tingly feeling in his dad’s bollocks.

“‘S’fine, mate,” is what he’d actually said. “Next year, let me know.”

Harry will be mardy. He can tell Harry wants him to pick up some sort of pet project, so he’s got more to do while they wait for the baby to come.

Because Harry’s is _Being Pregnant: The Untitled Harry Styles Project_. Ever since he’s started telling people, and tacitly told the entire world by going outside looking pregnant and not sending out a denial in response to ensuing tabloid coverage, their place has been a madhouse of Harry’s friends who have had babies dropping off dehydrated kale casseroles and giving him advice. Daisy Lowe tells him over tea that he should start rubbing coconut oil on his taint, which Zayn just goes ahead and pretends he didn't hear. 

The friends would be enough, but he’s started having birthing professionals in and out as well, mostly wild-eyed and stocky alpha women with graying plaits who are filling Harry’s head with a lot of nonsense about how he needs to take control of his powerful mighty womb and give birth in the forest somewhere.

Zayn feels deeply for him; he knows Harry is terrified of losing their son, and wants to ward off any possible dangers by eating the diet of an Amazon rainforest shaman, doing yoga six times a day, practicing Lamaze and stuffing their house so full of plants that it looks like a fashion editorial designed to promote interior gardens. But Zayn's starting to feel a bit edged out of the process.

He longs for a middle ground between twenty three-year-old Louis spending most of his pregnancy on a world tour ignoring Zayn and getting dicked down by Liam, and forty four-year-old Harry, wild-eyed and refusing to sleep in the east wing master bedroom until Zayn had a bloke come out and check that the dark splotch in the corner of the ceiling wasn’t deadly black mold (it was water damage).

Their conversations about home birth don’t go very well, either. Zayn thinks it’s something that should happen in a hospital, and Harry comes back at him with cockeyed figures about MRSA and medical errors.

“What if something goes wrong?” he’d said to him the other night.

Harry looked beyond exasperated. “Then I’ll obviously go to the hospital, Zayn!”

“What if it’s too late?”

“We live not five minutes from one!”

Zayn had sighed.

“I have a _doula…_ ”

“That’s not -- that isn’t a doctor, mate.”

Zayn has ended up confiding in Louis, lately; he doesn’t want to, because it feels dirty to come to him with their problems, but when it comes to this sort of queasy reproductive talk, who better than the bloke you’ve already had a baby with?

Louis grows more steadily convinced that Harry is an alien from another planet every time they discuss his attitude toward pregnancy. When Zayn told him Harry wants to have a natural labor, Louis genuinely looked appalled.

“So can’t you -- you did that without planning to, can’t you tell ‘im how horrible it is?” Zayn had begged.

“Nope!” Louis had chirped in response. “Because I actually discussed this with him once, and he said the reason I was in so much pain was just ‘cos I hadn’t properly practiced my breathin’ techniques. Not, y’know, the pushing seven pounds of person out of me bit. So I think you’re on your own, lad.”

Louis’ input on how he should occupy himself is to get Cala on a football team and then involve himself -- bring the orange slices, or maybe assistant coach, or something.

“That doesn't sound like me,” Zayn said hesitantly. “I'm like, a cool dad, I don't want to fuck that up…”

“Zayn, your kids are always going to get to a point where they think you're an annoying weirdo, and you've just got to accept that and not prolong it, honestly.”

So Zayn had reached out to one of the teams on the list Harry had gotten for them, and said he wanted to be involved.

“Fantastic!” gushed Gerry, the bloke who coaches. “Do you know much about football?”

“Some,” Zayn had mumbled, already expecting to regret this decision.

“Come to our practice next Saturday! Bring your daughter. Our season’s just started, you're in luck.”

Zayn had thanked him and hung up, feeling distinctly shanghaied.

He parks in the garage and sits for a minute. His mind is made up to tell Harry some of what he's been feeling lately, but he knows he's got to strike the proper balance or come off like a grouchy and controlling arsehole.

When he gets in, he calls “Oi!” and Harry shouts back, “In the kitchen!”

Zayn traipses in there and finds Harry merrily chatting with Shauna, a presenter friend of his who often seems unable to switch out of morning show host mode.

He slinks into the airy afternoon brightness of the kitchen, trying to go unnoticed. Cala is sitting at the breakfast nook table, drawing something with colorful markers, and he goes over to her and ruffles her hair.

Shauna and Harry are engrossed in deep conversation by the island (the only thing Zayn catches is Harry saying “And I've just found out I can't even go up in the gravity boots, anymore”) but Harry catches his eye and beckons him over. Zayn approaches.

“Zayn, hello,” Shauna coos. “I was telling Harry this crazy trick for dealing with stretch marks.”

Terminal morning show host mode, Zayn thinks, but he smiles at her.

“Potato juice! And a bit of aloe vera, if you like.”

Harry makes eye contact with Zayn and gives him a subtle wink. Zayn’s always loved that about him; how he can simultaneously make everyone in a room feel like they’re the center of his attention.

“Potato juice,” Zayn repeats, leaning his elbows down on the counter. “Hey, alright.”

“I might stick to cocoa butter, if it's all the same to you,” Harry tells her. Shauna flaps her hand at him.

“ _That's_ why you smell like cocoa butter all the time, now,” Zayn exclaims. “Was remindin’ me of some of my old girlfriends.”

“Oh, was I?” Harry says, amused. He looks sexy today; he's dressed down in a dark button-down that makes his eyes glow, and his hair is in loose shiny waves over his shoulders. He hasn't really dressed differently since he's begun to show, just started wearing flowier things. Zayn likes it. He likes that Harry reliably never tries to dress down his sex appeal, no matter how old they get. It's reassuring.

Shauna glances down to respond to a text that just flashed on her watch, and Zayn beckons Harry to him.

Harry comes when called. He's grinning all gorgeous, flashing a dimple.

“Hey,” he says throatily, sidling up against Zayn.

“Hey,” Zayn says, giving him a kiss, and then whispers to him, “You look good today…”

Harry glances behind them to make sure Cala isn't listening, as Shauna looks up in amusement.

“Zayn,” he says, in a voice that's halfway between aroused and scolding.

Zayn is frustrated, though, and a little alienated from Harry lately, and he does look especially good right now, so why not just do what he does best?

He pinches Harry on the arse and then slides his hand up under his shirt, trailing his fingers over the curve of his belly.

“Shall I leave you two?” Shauna says, smiling. “You had perfect timing, Zayn, actually, Don’s just picked up the kids and he says he'd like to see a film.”

“Ooh, which?” Harry says, as Zayn nuzzles his shoulder.

“I think that one with the Jolie-Pitt girl? Anyway, ta!” she says, as she heads toward the door. “Potato juice, Harry!”

“I'll try it! Have fun at your film!” he calls after her, and then when she's gone he nudges Zayn. “Hey, Mr Handsy…”

“It’s been a minute since we, um…” Zayn glances over at Cala, who is engrossed in her art project. “Had any _how's your father..._ ”

“I know, I'm sorry,” Harry whispers. “I've just been worried about… I dunno. Look, I'm feeling good right now, we can pop a movie in for the kid and go upstairs, maybe…”

“Daddy!” Cala calls out from the breakfast nook. “C’mere…”

Harry immediately leaves his side, and Zayn follows him.

“What's up, lovebug?” Harry says, chucking her under the chin.

“Who’s the people who put out fires?”

“Firefighters?”

“Can I be a firefighter for Halloween?” Cala asks him. She’s spread her artistic endeavors out across the entire length of the round table; the bright fall sunshine is pouring through the gauzy white curtains, over what she’s drawn.

“Course, I'll find you a costume first thing tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she says, returning to her drawing.

Zayn comes closer and strokes her hair. “That's really good work, love,” he says, impressed. “Properly looks like a giraffe. Great job.”

“Thank you,” she chirps.

“She's very artistic, isn’t she,” Harry says warmly, gazing at her.

Zayn fixes him with a stare, boring into him with the force of his desire. Harry glances back at him.

“So we’re going to go upstairs for a bit,” he says.

Cala nods, continuing to color, totally unconcerned.

“If you get hungry, let Hanna know… she’s folding laundry.” Harry is clearly dawdling.

“Oka-ay,” Cala says, giving him a side-eye that indicates she wants alone time. Zayn takes Harry by the arm and tugs him along, out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

He leads a mincing Harry into their bedroom, shuts and locks the door behind them, then embraces Harry, nuzzling at his throat and wrapping his hands around his waist. Harry sags against him, clearly enjoying the attention, but still preoccupied.

“C’mon, love,” Zayn whispers to him in a low, ragged voice, leading them back toward the bed, swaying their hips together like they’re dancing.

Harry kisses him on the mouth, deep but brief.

“I’ve just got all this anxiety,” he murmurs. “Like... I want you, I want it, I just -- I’m so tense, I feel weird, I feel like I’m not myself…”

“You’re treatin’ your body like you don’t even live in it,” Zayn says to him, drawing Harry down with him so they’re splayed out over the bed, Harry between his legs. He runs his hands through Harry’s hair, which is thicker and shinier lately. Harry gazes up at him.

“Like you’re a science experiment,” he continues, rubbing his thigh against Harry’s cock. Harry closes his eyes, pressing into Zayn’s touch. Zayn scritches his scalp. “An incubator. You’re not, you’re human, so be with me, be human with me...”

Harry kisses him again, but this time he doesn’t pull back. Zayn rolls them over so he’s on top, perched between Harry’s thighs. He slips his trousers down and off while Harry undoes his shirt.

Harry lies back against the pillows, his green eyes gleaming. He looks gorgeous. Zayn’s eyes trail over his tattoos, landing on the butterfly, which has just begun to distend very slightly at the bottom as their baby grows.

“I’m so lucky,” Zayn murmurs.

“Yeah, you are,” Harry says, grinning.

Zayn leans down and kisses Harry, biting his bottom lip as he lubes up his hand and slides a finger inside him. Harry moans against his mouth and rocks up against him. He’s more reactive than usual, more needy.

“Hey there,” Zayn breathes, grabbing Harry around the thigh. Harry arches his back against the bed and nuzzles Zayn, all flushed face and glowing eyes.

“Hi,” he says, his voice low and rumbly as anything. A pleasant tingle goes up Zayn’s spine. He rocks up against Harry, pushing a third finger into him. Harry goes mad from it, biting Zayn’s shoulder and shuddering.

Zayn maneuvers around the baby bump, lying slightly slantways over Harry as he slides into him. Harry moans full-throatedly, which he never does. Zayn’s eyelids flutter and he grips Harry hard by the hair, gasping.

“I might come fast,” he warns hoarsely, even though fast for him in his forties isn't exactly fast.

“Go ahead,” Harry murmurs to him, then lets out smaller moans as Zayn starts to thrust, and clenches around his cock. His head drops back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut as he clings to Zayn, biting his lip.

“You look incredible…”

“I feel really good,” Harry says throatily, his eyes still closed, smiling slightly. “You feel really good in me, I mean… _Ohhh_ … Fuck…”

“I like you like this,” Zayn breathes. “Like hearin’ you.”

Harry moans again, maybe partially for his benefit. Zayn grins, delirious with delight as his cock throbs inside him. There’s something purely joyful about their lovemaking.

He presses hard against Harry, nuzzling against his throat where he smells the most musky. Harry clings to Zayn’s waist, lightly dragging his nails over over his back as Zayn rocks into him.

They breathe in unison, moving like one mindless body until Zayn passes the point of no return. He sucks hard at Harry’s neck, the pistoning of his hips quickening as he rides up to orgasm and then over the edge with one final ragged sigh.

Harry moves under him, taking Zayn hard by the jaw so he can kiss him on the mouth.

“I love you,” Zayn whispers.

“I love you,” Harry says back, gazing at him.

Zayn cups his hands over the swell of Harry’s stomach. Harry lays his own hands over Zayn’s. They’re quiet for a moment, wonderfully and comfortably still.

“Is ‘e still movin’ around today?” Zayn says, glancing up at Harry.

Harry nods. “Just felt him a few minutes ago.”

Zayn strokes his fingers over the warm roundness under his hands, full of fizzy contentment.

“I wanna marry you,” he says. “Soon.”

“Before the baby?” Harry says, chewing at his bottom lip a little. “We’d have to do it quick, then.”

“Maybe after. I dunno. Whenever you feel up to it. I wasn’t thinking you wanted a big to-do, anyway.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, you know me. Something nice and private.”

“It’d be nice to do it before,” Zayn says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’d like to have one legitimate child, maybe.”

“A proper heir to the Malik deeds and titles?”

“I mean, someone’s got to inherit all my jewelry.”

“I think Mia’s got a strong claim, considering how much of it she’s already stolen off you.”

They laugh.

“I’ll marry you tonight,” Zayn says. “I’ll marry you right now, I’ll marry you whenever, just say the word.”

Harry gazes at him, his eyes growing glassy. He sniffles.

“Are you going to cry?” Zayn exclaims in astonishment, leaning in to kiss him. Harry laughs and wraps an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, burying his face in his neck.

“No, ‘m not going to _cry_ ,” Harry protests, his voice raspy all the same.

“S’alright, go on and cry, I know you’re ‘ormonal...”

“I don't wanna cry,” Harry murmurs, rolling his hips against Zayn. Zayn realizes that he's still hard; he was so fixated on being romantic that he forgot his main job.

He jerks Harry off swiftly, the girth of him wrapped up tight in his eager palm and fingers. Harry moans more, biting his bottom lip and tugging hard at his hair, writhing under him.

They press together eagerly, wanting to be even closer, wanting to be one body. Harry pushes his hands into Zayn’s hair and grips it hard as he fucks into his palm.

“I'm there,” Harry breathes, his eyes squeezing shut. Zayn kisses him as he comes, into Zayn’s hand and all over his hipbone. Harry lets out a soft, satisfied sigh.

Zayn pulls him close so they're spooning and wraps himself around Harry protectively, one hand going to the baby. Harry makes a noise of contentment and snuggles back up against him.

Zayn pushes his hair up and away and kisses the back of his neck. Harry relaxes against him, pliant in his arms.

 

KENSINGTON, OCTOBER 31, 2038

James Corden has lived up the road from them for the last five years or so, and he’s usually their first stop on Halloween, because he gives out the full-sized candy bars and runs out of them fast.

As they walk up his front steps under the orange light of the glowing streetlamps, the chatter of excited children ringing up and down the block, Zayn slings an arm around Harry. Harry smiles at him and wraps his arm around Zayn’s waist, nestling up against him.

“Alright, what are we this year?”James says when he opens his door.

“I’m a fireman!” Cala exclaims.

“Fire _fighter_ , love,” Harry tells her.

“I’m a witch,” says Cala’s schoolmate Hattie, who came along with them because her horrendously wealthy parents are at a gala dinner tonight and her nanny’s got the flu.

“You’re both spectacular,” he tells them. “And the grown-ups?”

“I’m making you guess, Corden,” says Harry.

“I think I get that you’re a pumpkin,” James says, laughing.

“Right, but it’s funny!” Harry says, who’s in an orange t-shirt and jeans with a green stem hat on, and jack-o-lantern makeup. “Because, like, baby? I’m a bit round? Pumpkin?... Pumpkins are round?”

“Yes, you’re very cute, Harry.”

Harry pouts. “You’re humoring me...”

“Always,” James says. “And Zayn is… Zayn?”

“Nah, mate, got cat ears on!” Zayn says, pointing at his head.

“Ah, so you do.”

“Cala made him join in,” Harry says, grinning. “She brought me those when I went shopping for her costume and told me I had to make him wear them.”

“Aye, I got cornered,” Zayn says amiably.

“Halloween is fun, Zayn!” counters James, who’s dressed as zombie Elvis.

Cala looks up from piling Mars bars into her bag and intones, “Daddy doesn’t like fun.”

“I do so like fun!”

“If you really liked fun, you’d have let me do whiskers on you,” Harry tells him.

“No, not puttin’ any _eyeliner_ on me cheeks, gonna clog me pores…”

James laughs. Another group is coming up behind them, so they say goodnight and continue on their merry way. Cala and Hattie skip ahead up the sidewalk and find a few neighbor boys to trade candy with; Zayn and Harry linger back, under the shadows of a tree.

Zayn turns to him and kisses him under his jaw. Harry’s eyes soften and he goes all half-lidded.

“You’re so easy, sometimes,” Zayn murmurs throatily, sliding his hand over Harry’s arse and squeezing it one-handedly. Harry inhales.

“Stop,” he whispers.

“Make me...”

Harry tips his head and kisses Zayn on the lips. Zayn leans into it, running his hand through his hair, grabbing him by the base of the neck. His gut clenches with warm arousal.

They separate after a minute, because they’re really going to need to run home if they keep this up. Harry gives him a cutely cross-eyed look before Zayn draws back.

“I've been thinking about you all the time since the other day,” Harry whispers. He bites his lip. “I had a dream where I rode you for hours…”

“Jesus,” Zayn groans, turning toward the street and tucking his half-hard cock up into the waistband of his boxers so it subsides.

Harry chuckles. “Sorry,” he says innocently.

One of their neighbors and Harry’s mum friends walks past them, calling, “Happy Halloween, boys!” with a crew of kids in tow. Zayn and Harry guiltily put a few inches of space in between each other and shout “happy Halloween” back.

Cala and Hattie gambol back over to them, grinning.

“They did a bad trade,” Hattie says. “We gave them all our sours and gum.”

“We pretended we liked sours,” Cala says. “So they gave us more candy for them. But we _don’t_ like sours.”

“Brilliant,” Zayn says.

“So… you hustled those little boys?” Harry says, clearly trying not to laugh. “The ones dressed as -- what are they?”

Zayn glances up and squints at their retreating backs. “Batman and Prince William?”

“My daughter scammed Batman and Prince William?” Harry says.

Cala shrugs. Zayn adjusts her little fireman’s hat, which is slipping sideways off her head.

“Will the baby dress up for Halloween?” she says.

“Not right away,” Harry tells her.

She looks perturbed. “Next Halloween?”

Zayn reaches over and pats Harry on the stomach. “We can dress him up for Halloween, kiddo, but he won’t trick-or-treat with you for a while yet.”

“How many Halloweens?”

“Let’s give him about two, at least,” Zayn tells her.

Cala looks deeply offended. “That’s _ages!_ ”

“How old will you be, then?” Harry quizzes her. “When he's two?”

“I dunno.”

“Your birthday’s in May, he’ll be born in March. You're six now.”

She screws up her brow, thinking about this. Hattie seems to be pondering it as well.

“Eight years old,” she says.

“Almost! Not quite eight. ‘Cos March comes before May.”

“Ohh…”

They start walking again up the road, passing family after family. There’s a crisp autumn smell in the air. Zayn feels deeply content, in a way that’s unusual for him.

“You know, when he’s five, I’ll be fifty,” Harry mutters. “You’ll be --”

“Don’t say it. I don’t wanna think about it.”

“When he finishes secondary, we’ll be in our sixties.”

“Like Mick Jagger,” Zayn says. “He was still reproducing into his sixties, wasn’t ‘e?”

“His seventies, actually…”

“Right, so we’re just following in his footsteps.”

Harry laughs. “It is very Jagger of you, to have kids who’ll be twenty-three years apart in age.”

“It’s perfect, ‘cos Yas can take care of me when I get old, and then this one can take care of her when she gets old.”

“Provided he’s nice and responsible,” Harry says. "He's a total mystery, right now."

Zayn nudges him. “I think he’ll be a lot like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, just a feeling I’ve got.”

They carry on down the sidewalk in comfortable silence, watching their daughter walk ahead of them.

 

LONDON, NOVEMBER 3, 2038

“Why did you cheat, when you cheated?” Mia asks him.

They’re riding the London Eye, seated across from each other. They do this sometimes; they have since she was a little kid. It’s one of the many things they like to do when both of them feel like the world is getting to be too much.

It’s a gloomy day. The Thames is the same color as the sky, a numb and mottled gray. The surface is choppy. Zayn thinks if you dropped anything in there today, it would vanish immediately.

He glances at his daughter, looking into her hooded blue eyes. “What?”

Mia is calm, almost impassive. “Why’d you cheat?”

Zayn shifts uncomfortably on his hard seat. He’d been looking out the window, utterly zoned, thinking.

“What are we talking about?”

“Daaad… Aunt Pezza.”

Zayn doesn’t answer for a moment. He’s never liked how close Louis and Perrie stayed over the years, considering Perrie has never forgiven him or even deigned to speak to him since before Mia was born. He’s sort of relieved that she lives in the states, now.

“I dunno what people have told you,” he says quietly, looking down at his lap and playing with his rings.

“Dad, I know what happened, don’t act dumb. I don’t care about what you did, it's ages ago, I just want to --”

Mia heaves a huffy sigh.

“ _Why?_ Why cheat?”

Zayn exhales to match her, then looks out the window again. Their cabin slowly rises, arcing up over London.

“Cowardice,” he says. “Immaturity. Not wantin’ to confront the real problem, not wanting to be honest, wanting to avoid confrontation. Yasmeen, no one deserves that. I’ve been on the other end now, I know how painful it is. I dunno what else to tell you.”

Mia looks down at her hands.

“I just feel worthless over it,” she mutters. “Like --”

She bites her lip hard, cutting herself off. Zayn is struck by powerful, stinging guilt.

“Love,” he says, moving to her side of the car and rubbing her back. “It’s got nothin’ to do with you and everything to do with her. Alright?”

“No! Because if I was good enough, this wouldn’t have happened!”

Zayn sighs. “It -- it isn’t that. I promise.”

“You _promise_ ,” she scoffs.

“Take it from me, I would’ve cheated on anybody. Could’ve been engaged to, like -- I dunno. Rihanna. It was all about me, not about her.”

Mia lets out a choked, tearful laugh. “Rihanna? God, you’re old.”

Zayn smooths his hand over her hair, pulling her head over onto his shoulder. “It isn’t personal,” he says. “It almost never is. You’re perfect, alright? You are beautiful and smart and funny and fantastic, you’ve got everything going for you. She was lucky to have you and she was an idiot for blowing it. There’s _nothin_ ’ wrong with you. Please believe me, Yas.”

She lifts her head and looks up at him with wet eyes. “Why would you have cheated on _anybody_? What does that even mean?”

Zayn inhales and sighs. “I -- I dunno, alright? I felt trapped, I… maybe Shannon feels trapped? In her job, her life, something? And -- I met her once, she seemed charming, and that’s nice, but it can be dangerous.”

“You cheated with Dad, didn’t you?”

He strokes a tear off her face. “I did, yeah.”

Mia sniffles. “Why?”

“He made me feel good,” Zayn says. “In a time where hardly anythin’ made me feel good, anymore. And then we made you, and that was the best thing I ever did.”

“But you didn’t mean to,” Mia says bitterly. “I’m an accident, I’m a mistake. I’m not the perfect little planned golden son like Oliver or you and Harry’s baby, you didn’t pick me out and wait on me for months like you did for Cala. I fucked up your life.”

Zayn pulls her close again, her head to his chest, and whispers very intently in her ear, “You _saved_ my life. Don’t ever think differently.”

“Is it fucking stupid,” she says, her voice muffled against his windbreaker, “that -- just, lately, I feel again like… I’ve got no place that’s just my own, I feel like this weird fucking in-between creature.”

“Oh, angel, you belong right here,” Zayn says emotionally, and kisses her on the head. “I love you so much, d’you know that?”

“I love you too…”

He keeps stroking her hair while she calms herself down, taking hiccupy breaths.

“If I could do my life over again,” Zayn says, “a hundred times in a row, I’d choose to have you every time.”

“Okay…”

“I mean that. I don’t want to live in a world that hasn’t got you in it, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

They separate, and he digs in his pockets for a tissue as she tucks her dark hair behind her ears and blinks away her tears. Sometimes, like now, she looks exactly like his sisters. Noticing that makes him ache even worse that he can’t protect her from the world.

 

KENSINGTON, NOVEMBER 3, 2038

“Home,” Zayn calls out, slipping out of his shoes as Mia takes her coat off.

“Kitchen!” Harry shouts back.

Zayn rubs his cold hands together as he rounds the corner and heads into the kitchen, where Harry and Cala are decorating cookies.

“Oh, this is adorable,” he says.

Mia comes behind him and _aww_ s. Harry glances up and smiles at them.

“We’re belated baking for Halloween,” he says, pointing to the baking tray. They're jack-o-lantern and ghost themed. “I’d forgot I bought these...”

“It's okay, because the punkin is still on the front step,” Cala explains. “You can eat punkin cookies if the punkin is still out.”

Harry nods at her very seriously. “That’s the protocol we landed on, yes,” he says, like they’re in Parliament. 

He’s looking adorably house-wifey, with an apron on over the baby bump and his longish hair pulled back. He leans on the counter, watching Cala fondly as she clumsily but confidently applies icing to the cookies.

Zayn comes around behind him and presses his mouth to Harry’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist and cupping his belly. Harry absentmindedly lays his hands over Zayn’s and strokes the backs of them with his thumb.

“How’s baby?” Zayn murmurs.

Mia is watching them with a bittersweet expression. She catches Zayn looking at her and glances down at the cookies.

“Baby’s good,” Harry says cheerfully. “Near as I can tell.”

Zayn loves the warm, firm curve of his stomach. He loves being able to casually hold him like this;  loves that he's in love with Harry, not estranged like he was with Louis or duped like he was with Nina. Harry wants him near, he wants Zayn’s hands on him and Zayn inside of him, he wants the father of his baby doting on him. Zayn didn't know what he's been missing, how good that could feel.

“Name the baby Bristol,” Cala says, as she painstakingly applies frosting to a cookie.

Mia takes one of the unfrosted ones and pops it in her mouth. “Bristol?”

“She loves that word, for some reason,” Harry says. Zayn smiles.

“It’s pretty!”

“Every time we pass through Bristol, she's like, daddy, daddy, say where we are. _Bristoool_.” He gestures to Boots, who's snoozing on his bed in the breakfast nook. “Almost named the dog Bristol. Anyway, love, I think we'll name the baby after my dad…”

He very softly knocks the wood of the cabinet with his knuckles. He does that sometimes, when he talks about the baby. It makes Zayn a little misty.

“But I'm open to middle names.”

“Mia,” says Mia with a smirk.

Harry laughs. “Great middle name for a boy, yeah.”

“Desmond Mia Yasmeen Styles.”

Harry laughs heartily.

“‘Scuse me, _Styles_?” Zayn pipes up. “I reckon Malik? I mean, if you’ve got to be a Tomlinson, Yas…”

“Cala’s a Malik-Styles,” Harry says, stroking Zayn’s forearm, ruffling the hair against the grain. Zayn sways his hips a little, like they’re dancing. “Maybe this one ought to be a Styles-Malik, actually.”

“I like being a Tomlinson,” Mia says with a slight smile. “Anyway, aren’t you eponymous, Dad? Like Madonna?”

“Mononymous.”

“Whatever.”

“My kids aren’t,” he informs her. She grins.

“Oh, oh,” Harry says, excited, pressing his hands more firmly to himself. “Baby moved…”

Zayn knows he won’t be able to feel it yet, but he tries anyway.

“Talk to him,” Harry suggests. “You know he can hear you, now.”

Zayn kneels with a pained groan; his knee’s gone funny now that it’s cold out again. He takes Harry by the hips and pushes his apron to the side. Harry chuckles softly.

“Baby,” Zayn says, very seriously. “I’m sorry that you’re going to have about fifty names at the rate your dad is going.”

“What’s wrong with having loads of names?” Harry says. “The royals all have loads of names.”

Mia snorts, and Zayn catches her rolling her eyes and mouthing “the _royals_ ” in a way very reminiscent of Louis.

“Des Malik,” Zayn says, only half-serious. “Simple. I like that. Don’t you?”

“Sounds like a footballer,” Mia puts in.

“Never mind,” Zayn quickly adds.

“Speaking of football,” Mia says. “Hasn’t Cala got her first practice tomorrow?”

Cala looks up from dumping handfuls of sprinkles willy-nilly onto the cookies. She makes a face.

Zayn presses a kiss to Harry’s middle and stands up, sighing apprehensively. “Right. I forgot about that.”

“Alright, c’mon, now,” Mia says cajolingly. “It’s just football, everyone.” She nudges Cala. “You’ll have fun, I promise.”

“I don’t _know_ anyone,” Cala says, looking up at her. Her hair is done up in two ponytails, with those elastics that have colorful bobbles. Zayn hasn’t seen a girl wear those since he was a kid.

He doesn’t know where Harry finds these things, but his obsession with curating unique looks for Cala has made her a sort of minor trend-setter amongst her peers. Mums are constantly taking Harry aside and asking where he shops for her. Cala doesn’t notice, of course, because she’s six.

“You’ll make friends,” Mia says kindly, smiling at her. “You didn’t know anyone when you started school, either, and now you’ve got school friends, yeah?”

“I _guess_ ,” Cala says.

Zayn glances at Harry, silently asking him to contribute, but Harry appears to be in his own little world. He’s drumming his fingers on the counter with one hand and has the other pressed to his stomach, still.

“Cala, love, sometimes you’ve got to do new things you don’t like,” Zayn says, “because it’s good for you as a person to do them. And this is one of those things.”

She glares up at him with impudence, but doesn’t sass back, so Zayn mentally chalks this up as a victory.

Harry reaches over and takes a cookie, scattering sprinkles everywhere in the process.

“Alright, I'm going,” he announces, brushing his hands off into the bin and then removing his apron.

Zayn glances up at him. “Where?”

“Where?” Harry says, amused. “I’ve got a lunch with Kendall, remember?”

“What?” Zayn says, nettled. “No, I don't remember. You're running off to lunch with your ex?”

Mia’s head is bobbing back and forth like she's watching a tennis match. Cala is entirely unperturbed.

“Zayn,” Harry says, smiling patiently and moving around the island toward the hall. “I'm engaged to my boyfriend of nine years and pregnant, and she's married. You don't have anything to worry about.”

Zayn sighs. “Can you _tell_ me these things?”

“I did tell you! You weren't listening! Should I paste up reminders all over the house next time?”

Harry seems fondly amused. Zayn gives him a look.

Harry rolls his eyes. “We're discussing a potential business opportunity for you, if you must know.”

“ _What_? Like what, a reality show?”

“Yes, your very own reality show,” Harry deadpans.

“Somethin’ in fashion?”

“Maybe…”

“I don't want it.”

“Zayn!”

Zayn relents. “Fine, we'll talk later. Go have your weird ex lunch.”

“It's nice to keep in touch with your exes, actually,” Harry says, a bit churlishly. “It's healthy.”

“Fuck that,” Mia scoffs.

“Don't curse in front of Cala, Yas, please,” Zayn chides her.

“Sorry. Screw that.”

Harry laughs. “ _Stuff that_ would be more acceptable.”

“Stuff that, then.”

“Goodbye Maliks,” Harry calls as he heads into the hallway. “I'm taking one along with me, but goodbye other Maliks...”

“Bye, love,” Zayn yells after him.

“Bye!” Cala calls. “Wait, Daddy…”

Harry returns swiftly. “Yes, bug.”

“Bring cookies,” she says, dropping several into his hand.

Harry grins. “For the road?”

She nods somberly. Zayn fetches a Ziploc for him to put them in.

 

*

 

Harry comes home in a very good mood; Zayn would think he was tipsy, if he didn’t know better.

“Hiii,” he purrs as he stops in the middle of the sitting room, slipping his boots off. Zayn sets his book down.

“Hi there,” he says warmly.

Harry looks up at him lasciviously and pads over to him, then settles on his lap and snogs him hard. Zayn’s cock throbs, and he grabs at the lapels of Harry’s jacket.

“Where's the kids?” Harry whispers, pulling back slightly.

“Mia took Cala to a museum,” Zayn breathes, nipping at his bottom lip. “We're all alone.”

“Good,” Harry says in his low voice. “Because I'm dying to suck your cock.”

“Fuck,” Zayn says, pushing his fingers into Harry’s thick hair, scratching at his scalp. “What's gotten into you?”

Harry doesn't respond. He just slides off the couch so his knees are on the floor between Zayn’s legs, yanks Zayn’s trousers down and then his briefs, then takes him eagerly into his mouth.

Zayn groans and strokes Harry’s hair as he bobs on him.

“I sort of feel weird,” he says, and then gasps. “You doing this while you’re pregnant… kneelin’, I dunno…”

Harry looks up at him with glowing eyes, then drags his tongue up the length of Zayn’s stiff cock.

Zayn shudders and gasps. “Never mind,” he chokes out.

Harry sucks him like he’s getting paid, kissing the tip of his cock and kneading his balls with an expert touch. At one point, Zayn looks at him under his lashes and sees a dribble of precome and saliva running down his chin, and shudders so hard with delight he has to grab at the couch.

He does such a good job that Zayn comes faster than he means to, clenching his jaw and then letting out a long satisfied sigh. Harry gets clumsily to his feet to grab a tissue, spits Zayn’s semen into it and then collapses onto the couch next to him.

Zayn idly strokes his hair. “Hi there.”

“Hey,” Harry says, fondly.

“You look nice, today.”

“So do you, handsome.”

They smile dizzily at each other, and Zayn reaches his hand out to press it to the swell of his belly. Harry covers Zayn’s hand with his, like he always does.

“So,” Zayn says, stroking Harry with his thumb. “What’d Kendall say?”

“Get right to the point, don’t you?” Harry says with a crooked little smile.

“Well, if it concerns _me_ , mate…”

Harry shakes his head bemusedly. “She asked me if you’d be interested in -- oh…” He breaks off. “I felt him again. That’s funny, he moves around more when you touch me.”

“Yeah?” Zayn says, thrilled. He gets closer and wraps his other arm around Harry’s shoulders. “You know me, baby?”

“He does,” Harry murmurs.

Zayn brings his hand to the side of Harry’s face and pets his jaw, then kisses his neck. Harry makes a satisfied humming sound and cuddles up closer to him.

“When's your next ultrasound?” Zayn says.

“Umm… the twenty week one, in like a week and a half, I think…”

Zayn slips his hand up under Harry’s shirt, so he can be skin to skin where the baby is. “And when's that class you wanted to do start?”

“November,” Harry says. “It's a birthing class, you know that, right?”

“I assumed,” Zayn says, laughing. “I went to a few Lamazes with Nina.”

Harry slings an arm around him and starts rubbing the tight muscles in his neck. He's got strong hands, and it feels good; Zayn closes his eyes.

“Just don't want you to get queasy,” he says.

“I mean, I'll see it all when it happens, yeah? Better to be prepared.”

“It's just... you weren't there when Louis gave birth, so...”

“Right, but like,” Zayn says, with a hint of annoyance. “Not of my own choosin’.”

“I know. You'll see this one born, alright?”

Zayn rubs his hand back and forth over Harry’s belly, nodding. Harry smiles at him.

“So… my lunch with Kendall,” he says.

“Go on,” Zayn says. He cuddles up against Harry, resting his head on his chest so he can better press his hand to the baby. He knows it won't happen for about a month, but he's got this silly notion that if he pays close enough attention, he'll manage to feel him moving.

Harry kisses him on the top of the head and runs his fingers through his hair. “She’s going to host this new show…”

“I knew it. I knew it was a fuckin’ reality show.”

“Let me finish.”

“Fine...”

“It is a reality show, you were right,” Harry acquiesces. “It's like a British reboot of Project Runway, except with some twists. I dunno what the twists are, yet, exactly. But she'd like you to be a judge on it, ‘cos she respects your style.”

“Why not you?” Zayn says, confused. He plays with one of the buttons on Harry’s shirt.

“She asked, I told her I'm too busy.”

“When's it start filming?”

“Round this time next year, in London.”

“I'll think about it,” Zayn hedges. “We'll ‘ave an infant in the house.”

“And that's why this is perfect, ‘cos you'd only film about twice a week for a few months.”

“I'll think about it.”

“That's all I can ask.”

They go quiet again. Harry seems lost in thought; Zayn nudges him.

“What’s up?”

“Just… I’m trying not to be anxious about this baby,” he murmurs. “I try to take it a day at a time. But, um... I saw a pair of twins today, two little boys, and it felt like I got socked in the chest for a second.”

“Harry,” Zayn says softly, sitting up and gazing at him. He strokes his dark hair, and Harry glances over at him with a wan smile.

“Just for a second,” he says. “But I, like… d’you… d’you ever see kids around three, four, and think about…”

“The first one we lost?”

Harry nods.

“Yeah,” Zayn says with difficulty. “I do, actually.”

Harry swallows, then reaches down and squeezes his thigh.

“I'll do the Kendall thing, I s’pose,” Zayn says. He isn't particularly enthusiastic about it, but he knows it'll make Harry happy to say yes, and it might jump-start his stalled career a little bit. “You can let her know I’m on board.”

Harry smiles at him. “Thank you, darling.”

“My pleasure.”

 

KENSINGTON, NOVEMBER 4, 2038

Zayn trudges up the hill from the car park toward the football pitch, lugging all of Cala’s gear as she trails behind him anxiously.

“It’s only footie,” Zayn says, as they reach the top of the hill and the field comes into view. “There’s nothin’ to be anxious about, I promise.”

Cala shakes her head as they squish through the wet grass. “Where’s Daddy?”

“In a meeting, he’ll be by in a while.”

“I don’t like football,” she says.

“You’ve never played it, love.”

“I watched Mia play. I don’t like it.”

Zayn sighs and stops in his tracks. He squats down and takes her by the shoulders. She looks impudently up at him with her dark eyes.

“Baby,” he says. “Like I said. Sometimes we do things we don’t like. Sometimes we do things we don’t like for years and years, actually. But it, um, builds character. So you shouldn’t quit things.”

“Why not?”

“Because quitting is bad,” he says. “I mean, sometimes it’s good. Sometimes you ought to quit things, actually. But you’ve got to give them a fair shake, first. Quitting without even trying things is lame.”

She squints at him. “I don’t get it.”

“Go to two practices and a game,” Zayn says. “If you still hate it and you didn’t make any friends, go ahead and quit. Quit all you like.”

“Can I quit school?”

“No, you can’t quit school, love.”

“Why not?”

“Because me and your dad both quit school, and we don’t know our arithmetic and shit -- and stuff. Sorry. Don’t say shit, it’s a bad word." He still isn't used to censoring himself. He and Louis never bothered not cursing in front of Mia, which he guesses is why she talks like a drunk sailor on shore leave. "Anyway, you’re smart, you’re good at school, you’ve got no reason to quit.”

Cala scuffs her cleats on the ground. They’re new, and still uncomfortable to her. Zayn stands and takes her by the hand, leading her to the gaggle of adults by the bleachers.

“Zayn?” says an older, wealthy-looking dad, coming to intercept him and reaching out his hand. Zayn shakes it. “Name’s Bill, nice to meet you.”

“Hey, Bill.”

“And this must be Cala!” Bill says cheerfully.

She offers her hand to shake as well, and he laughs before shaking it.

“So what do you know about the team?”

“Um,” Zayn says, chewing on his lip. A whistle blares from across the pitch, and he jumps a little. “It's… for kids?”

Bill laughs again and adjusts his gleaming watchband. “It's for under eights, and it's a co-ed league. Is that alright with you?”

“I don't see why not.”

“Bill,” says a posh blonde woman with a long bob, leaning away from the parental gaggle. They all glance at her.

She gestures to her watch. “Gerry just texted. He's confirmed he isn't coming back.”

“To practice, or at all?”

“At all!” She looks incensed, but after a beat she glances at Zayn.

“Sorry,” she adds, coming over and extending an arm that's positively dripping with jewelry. Zayn finds himself wishing he'd dressed better. “My name’s Maureen, pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry for all the hullabaloo, it's just it appears we've lost our coach.”

Another dad looks over. “You're kidding!”

“I’m not, Arthur!”

Zayn turns his attention to the pitch, where the kids are all goofing around, pulling up grass and kicking their balls around with no particular energy behind it.

He nudges Cala. “Go play with them, meet your team.”

“But --”

“No buts, go on. Make friends. I've got to talk to the grown-ups.”

Cala gives him a flinty look, but he stays stalwart, and she trudges off across the field.

“Um, so,” Zayn says, finding himself wanting a cigarette. “We don’t have a coach, is what I’m getting?”

“This is a _disaster_ ,” opines Maureen, shaking her be-tennis braceleted hands in the air.

“What happened to Gerry?” Arthur whispers, detaching from a woman who seems to be his wife to join their little confab.

“He’s got some things going on at home,” Bill says in his rich RP accent, tipping his head back. “Some marital... _unpleasantness_. I didn’t pry. But he’s quitting.”

Zayn puts his hands on his hips. “Um… assistant coach?”

“We haven’t got one,” Bill says.

Behind them, the kids are getting rambunctious. It’s a nice day for November, and spirits are high. Zayn is relieved to see that Cala isn’t being anti-social; she’s gotten involved in some sort of game where they’re throw handfuls of grass at each other.

“Shit,” Zayn says. “Who can take over, today?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Bill says. “I’m very busy. I’ve got three other kids, besides.”

Zayn looks anxiously at the other parents. Maureen shakes her head.

“I don’t know the first thing about football,” she says.

“Well, I’m not David Beckham, meself,” Zayn claps back.

“I’m very busy,” she sniffs. “I’m on the board of several charities.”

Zayn can’t combat this, as he doesn’t really do much of anything anymore. “Arthur?” he says.

“Oh, no no no,” Arthur says. “I can’t do these weekday practices. I’m only here for the first one. In fact, we’re only here to drop him off, we just hung around when we realized Greg hadn’t shown.”

“Who else can take over?”

Everyone looks at each other.

“Mike?” Bill suggests, gesturing over at the trio still gaggled over by the bleachers.

“Mike’s pregnant,” Maureen whispers, like this is scandalous.

“What, by that new young toy of his?” Arthur says with interest.

“Yes. And they aren't even married, you’ll remember.”

Zayn surreptitiously rolls his eyes.

“Anyway, he's got that awful thing Princess Kate had with her first one. Gets sick _constantly_. He's alright today, but…”

“Who else’s over there?” Zayn says.

“They’re both nannies,” Arthur says. “It’s Mike and two nannies.”

Zayn nods. “Gimme a mo,” he says, and walks away, bringing up Louis’ number on his watch and then directing the call to his earpiece.

Louis picks up almost immediately. “‘Lo?”

“I need you, mate.”

“What’s up?”

“I need someone who’s good at football. Immediately, like.”

“I think I’ve been waiting for this call my entire life,” Louis says.

 

*

 

Louis comes in and gets everything with the kids sorted. He brings a bunch of papers with him and jots down a roster, since Gerry has the real one, then sorts the kids by where they’d like to play.

“Who wants to score goals?” he says, after he’s gathered them under the shade of a tree.

Everyone raises their hands.

“Alright, you can’t _all_ score goals. Defense is fun, too. Or keeper.”

“Where do I play to hit people?” says Cala’s new friend, Scott.

“Defense,” Louis tells him.

“I wanna hit people.”

“Nice, Scott’s on defense,” Louis says cheerfully, jotting this down.

“Me too,” Cala volunteers.

Zayn smiles at her.

Louis leads them through some drills and then, after a break for sports drinks and orange slices doled out by Maureen (the only parent still left loitering), he enlists a coach having a practice on the adjacent pitch to help him set up a scrimmage and observes from the halfway line, clipboard tucked under his arm.

“Thanks for this,” Zayn mutters. “I owe you. I thought we’d have to send everyone home, and I barely convinced Cala to come in the first place…”

Louis flaps his hand. “No problem, mate. Honestly, I’m sort of bored now, most days.”

“Right,” Zayn says. “I forgot you stepped down.”

“You forgot? Feel like it’s in the trades every week since it happened.”

“I don’t read the trades anymore,” Zayn admits.

Louis glances at him.

“Harry does, though.”

“Where is Harry, speaking of?”

“He texted, he's on his way. I think his meeting went badly.”

“What was it about?”

Zayn looks down at his shoes, scuffing them in the grass. “Project ‘e wanted in on. He was afraid they’d refuse to postpone it for him to have the baby, and that they’d just give the role to someone else… I guess they did.”

“That’s fucked,” Louis scoffs. “He’s worth the wait.” He raises his voice and gently calls out, “Simon! What are you looking up in the sky for, kiddo?”

Simon, their keeper, turns facefront, looking sheepish.

“I’m assumin’ this is a one-time thing?” Zayn says, looking over at him fondly. “Not that I wouldn’t be fine with you just taking over as coach.”

Louis squeezes his shoulder. “Think that’d be a bit weird, considering I don’t have a kid on the team. But I appreciate it.”

“Can Yas pass for seven, you think?”

Louis chokes out a laugh.

“I’ve got to take over, I s’pose you’re saying,” Zayn says resignedly.

“That does seem like the only option. ‘Less Maureen can do it.”

They peer over at Maureen, who’s still seated in the bleachers, having a very animated call with someone while she files her nails.

“I doubt it,” Zayn comments.

“I can walk you through the finer points,” Louis says, glancing up at him. He’s in a good mood, clearly; his light eyes are twinkly. “And keep coming to practices, if you like. Until you lot get a real coach.”

“It’d be much appreciated,” Zayn says gratefully. “Really.”

Louis points. “Your man’s arrived.”

Zayn looks over and sees Harry walking up over the hill, his jacket slung over his shoulder. He’s got a scowl on, but he brightens some when he sees Zayn.

Zayn closes the gap between them, meeting him and giving him a quick kiss. “So,” he says. “Gazza’s quit.”

Harry squints at him. “Who?”

“The coach.”

“Fuck, really?” Harry leans sideways slightly, to look past him. “That why Louis is here?”

The way he says _Louis_ isn’t particularly affectionate. Zayn decides to ignore that.

“Yeah, ‘e’s been pressed into service… Didn’t know who else to call,” Zayn admits. “How’d the meeting go?”

Harry clears his throat. “Apparently, they won’t wait for me,” he says. “They’re going with Danny Marino for the role.”

“Fuck…” Zayn exhales sympathetically.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, his voice flat.

Zayn eyes him. “Is it?”

“I’m in a shit mood, is all,” he says. “I don’t feel great today, anyway, and I just… I dunno. They made it sound as if getting pregnant was a bonehead decision I made, like why would I want to take myself out of commission for a year?”

“They’re heartless people, these types,” Zayn says, leading him over to the bleachers. “We know that, don’t we? It’s got nothing to do with your talent or your bankability. They'll regret it.”

Harry doesn’t seem to want to discuss this any more than he has. “How’s Cala doing?”

“She’s actually having a good time, I think.”

Harry leans his head on Zayn’s shoulder. “There’s some good news.”

“What d’you mean when you say you don’t feel great?”

“Just that I’m really nauseous today,” Harry says softly.

Zayn reaches up and strokes his dark hair back off his face.

“This wraps up soon,” he says. “Did you drive here?”

“No, Stefan brought me.”

“Come home with me, then. I’ll take you home and tuck you into bed.”

“Alright…”

Zayn watches Louis, who’s helping the kids reset their positions after a goal. Scott says something to him and he throws his head back, laughing. He seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

 

LONDON, NOVEMBER 9, 2038

“We're fine,” Louis insists. “We're doing much better. I dunno what else to say.”

Liam shifts in his seat and nods to corroborate this.

Their marriage counselor looks at them over her glasses. Her office is very quiet, except for a little electronic rock garden that bubbles continuously, and she keeps the lights cozily low. It makes Louis anxious.

“Well, how have things been since you stepped down?” Bridget says. “It's been nearly two months now, hasn't it? Right when you started seeing me.”

Liam and Louis glance at each other and shrug.

“I can tell it's taking him a little adjusting,” Liam says. “You're definitely more antsy than usual,” he addresses to Louis.

“Well, I haven't got anything to _do_ all day, now,” Louis says in exasperation.

“I know, that's what I'm saying.”

“I miss it, definitely,” Louis admits. He swallows. “I feel like -- I know I've done all I wanted to, I know I've shaped loads of careers, and this thing is bigger than me now. It’ll continue after me, and maybe it's better I turned over to younger people who can keep it growing and keep it hip. I needed to turn over a new leaf and start a new chapter, like. But it's hard not to feel, I dunno, possessive and weird about it, and want it back sometimes. Never for very long, of course.”

“Have you kept up with what's going on at the company?”

Louis shakes his head emphatically. “Other than me chairman duties, I don't want to know,” he says, and laughs. “It still stings a bit.”

“That's understandable.”

Liam looks somewhat guilty, at this.

“And how's your sex life?” says Bridget.

Louis bounces his leg. “Good,” he says.

“Good?”

“We’re back to at least once a week,” Liam says cheerily.

“And you feel connected?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Louis murmurs, and glances over at Liam, who smiles fondly at him. They've been _connecting_ all over the house for weeks now.

Bridget makes note of this on her tablet.

“Liam, you said before that Louis was upset by Harry being pregnant, can you elaborate at all now that this reality has had some time to sink in?”

“ _Upset_ is far too strong,” Louis interrupts.

Liam chews on the inside of his cheek. “Unpleasantly surprised, maybe.”

“Why does it bother you?” Bridget says.

Louis falls silent. He finds this difficult to articulate. The rock garden bubbles loudly in his silence.

“S’pose I just…” he picks at the seat. “That, like...”

Louis drags in a breath and glances at Liam for help. Liam is leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, eyeing Louis with curiosity but a reassuring warmth as well.

“It was just something only I had with him,” Louis whispers. “That, like, we'd had a baby together. He didn't have that with anybody else. And now things between us are really good...”

He looks down, sheepish, and twiddles his thumbs.

“I guess I just liked bein’ special to him,” Louis says. “I'm sorry, Payno. It doesn't mean anything, I swear…”

“I know.”

“After I had Mia… after what he put me through, _us_ through… I never wanted to be _with_ him, I just wanted to be special to him. You know?”

Liam clears his throat.

“I think you always will be,” he says with difficulty, running his finger along the arm of the chair. “No matter what.”

“You don't sound happy about that, Liam,” Bridget says.

Liam shrugs. “I made my peace with it ages ago,” he says. “Louis picked me, we've made an entire life together.”

“And I adore you, you dolt,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “I put aside my fuckin’ entire career for you and our son, alright? ‘Cos you mean more to me than anything.”

Liam reaches over and squeezes his thigh. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

“You're my favorite slam piece of all time,” Louis tells him.

Liam laughs heartily.

“And I recall you saying it bothered you that it was Harry, specifically,” Bridget says, tucking a sleek piece of nondescript dark hair behind her ear.

Louis glances up. “Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Liam glances over at him, amused.

“Well, you know,” Louis says.

“What do we know?” Bridget rejoinders.

“I’ve got my dealio with Harry, is all. We have our little dealio with each other, more fairly.”

“How would you describe that, though?”

Louis is at a loss for how, and he looks to Liam. Liam squints and makes his thinking face.

“Sibling rivalry?” he says. “Jackie and Marilyn? Betty and Veronica?"

“Alri-ight, that’s enough." Louis pauses. "You're calling your own husband a Veronica?"

"I always liked Veronica better," Liam says, with a boyish smile. “Um... Oh, oh, Blair and Serena."

“Who?”

“ _Gossip Girl?_ You never watched _Gossip Girl_?”

“I mean, I think Lottie did, a million years ago.”

Liam grins. “When Mia was in secondary, we used to watch it together. She roped me in.”

Louis jerks his thumb at him. “This is what I deal with.”

“Nothing wrong with enjoying some fine television of the aughties,” Liam exclaims. “My favorite was when they would have a massive party and everything would go wrong. That got me every time. I was always like, oh no!”

Louis laughs and turns to Bridget. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Really, it doesn’t. I’m properly happy for them, I’m excited for both of them.”

She smiles and gives one of her prim little nods. “That’s very good,” she says. “So... have you put more thought into how to use your free time, now that you've got so much of it? Anything you and Liam can do together, or with Oliver?”

“We were talking about recording music together again,” Liam says. “And that's something I'd really be interested in doing.”

“Right, me too,” Louis says, looking over at him.

“Like, just the two of us,” Liam says, with a smile. “Like Wings.”

“But no Dennys.”

“Like Wings but no Dennys, right.”

“And Linda wasn't like, an original Beatle, either. So we've got that going for us.”

“Didn't Paul say Wings was terrible?” Liam says. “I remember him trashing Wings loads. Can't believe he's dead. I only met him, never got to really chat him up.”

“Harry chatted him up.”

“Well, Harry gets to do all the fun things. I did have a sit-down with Ringo once, though.”

“Anyway,” Louis says, squeezing Liam's shoulder. “We reckon we'd like to record again together, aye.”

 

 

*

 

Louis is making himself a cup of tea when Liam comes up behind him, snaking his arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck.

“Hi,” Louis says in surprise, leaning back against him. Liam takes him by the hips and turns him around, then presses him up against the counter and snogs him.

Louis melts under him and allows himself to be manhandled. Liam shoves his hands down the backs of his trousers and grabs his arse, and Louis cups Liam’s jaw as they stagger through the hall into the sitting room.

“Marriage counseling get you hot, now, Payno?” Louis says flirtily as he undoes his shirt and collapses back onto the couch. Liam rests one knee between his thighs and pulls his belt undone.

“This is sort of embarrassing,” Liam says, grinning. “But I have a bit of a crush on you? Please don’t tell anyone.”

Louis laughs and Liam comes in close and kisses him again.

They have very slow sex on the couch, with loads of foreplay first, because Oliver won't be home from practice for hours and they aren't expecting anyone. Louis grips Liam's hair hard in his fingers and closes his eyes as he moans and whines.

“Harder, harder,” he begs after a while of this. He wants to come just from being fucked; he misses that.

Liam handily flips him over on the couch and fucks him doggy-style so he can nail his prostate better. Louis presses his face against a pillow, letting out muffled groans and sighs of ecstasy. Liam pulls his hair, which feels completely incredible.

“Yeah, you like that?” Liam says playfully. He's more confident and cheeky since their holiday, more like his old self.

“Oh, yeah,” Louis moans as his cock leaks all over his thighs. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Nobody's ever done you as good as me, have they?”

“No, ‘s’why I keep you around,” Louis groans into the pillow. Liam laughs breathily.

He slows his thrusts so he stays deeper inside of Louis, which feels incredible. Louis grips the couch hard, swallowed up by sensation.

He comes first, gasping and sighing, and this evidently excites Liam so much that he can't help but come as well a minute or so later.

Liam collapses on top of him, sweaty and beaming. “D’you realize, including kissing and stuff, we just fucked for like an hour?”

“Fuckin’ right,” Louis says, impressed. “I can't remember when last we had time to fuck for an hour at home.”

“Weekends, when Mia was a baby?”

“Liam, no offense, but I counted myself lucky if you lasted fifteen minutes back then.”

Liam pouts and wrestles him back onto the couch. Louis protests, laughing. They play fight for a minute or so before becoming exhausted and snuggling up against the pillows to cuddle.

“It's really nice to have you home this much,” Liam murmurs, kissing him on the jaw. Louis nuzzles against Liam’s stubbly neck.

“It's nice to be home this much,” Louis says softly. Then, after a beat: “Oh, _shit._ My tea’s gone cold.”

Liam laughs, his chest rumbling as he sucks at Louis’ throat.

 

*

 

While Liam makes dinner, Louis sits across the island from him scrolls through his aggregated feed. He spots a new photo from Zayn; it’s a black and white shot of Zayn’s tattooed hands resting against the bare skin of Harry’s stomach. _Son xx_ is the caption. His breath catches a little.

Louis scrolls down to find that Harry has reshared it, along with loads of their mutual friends, including Lou and Niall. Mia has, too, adding, _Brother xx_ in that cheeky way of hers.

“This is cute,” he murmurs, favoriting it. He doesn't share it; he thinks that'd be weird.

Liam glances up from what he's sauteeing and looks at the display hovering above Louis’ watch.

“That is cute,” he agrees. “Why didn't we ever post anything like that?”

“What are you talking about? We put up pictures of Oliver all the time, we did all those lovey pap walks when I was pregnant.”

“Yeah, but it was never me like, kissing your belly or something.”

Louis makes a face and clicks his watch off. “Ew.”

“You just said what they did was cute!” Liam says, testing the sauce with his finger and popping his finger in his mouth.

Louis motions at him; Liam dips his finger in it again and then slips it into Louis’ mouth.

“Good,” Louis says. “Perfect.”

“It needs salt.”

“If you insist. It's cute for _them_ , is what I meant.”

Liam rolls his eyes and fondly shakes his head as he shakes the salt over the pan.

“What?”

“You're very predictable, is all,” Liam says with a smile. “My silly husband.”

“I think I'm entirely unpredictable,” Louis argues, leaning his elbows on the dark counter. “Didn't expect me to leave my job, did you?”

“I didn't,” Liam admits, rubbing his stubbly cheeks. He seems to be still adjusting to losing his beard. “You really caught me by surprise.”

Louis cocks an eyebrow at him. “There you go, then.”

“I think you wanted to quit for yourself, a little bit,” Liam says, looking up at him from under his eyelashes. “Just a bit.”

Louis feels another pleasant rush at remembering how free he is, how so many of the worries that used to dog his every waking moment are now someone else's problem.

Simon has left him twenty or so voicemails since he stepped down. He hasn’t listened to any of them yet.

“Just a _bit_ ,” he says.

Liam smiles and feeds him more sauce.

 

LONDON, NOVEMBER 20, 2038

“So to start off class,” says Heather, their birthing coach, “I’d like for everyone to take some deep breaths and do a visualization exercise with me.”

Zayn sighs quietly. Harry elbows him.

Heather brings her hands together and takes in an exaggerated deep breath. She's a lot younger than their doula-- less scary, too. Their doula is a dour Cumbrian woman named Helene who asked Zayn last week if he'd like to be the one to pull their baby out of Harry. Zayn had gotten prickly fear sweats at the mere suggestion.

“No, no, no thanks,” he'd said, and she had just squinted at him like he was being a bad father by refusing.

Heather is blonde and fit with a very Irish face, despite her blandly English accent. She was flirty with Zayn at the beginning of their first class last week; he shut it down immediately, of course, but she makes him anxious now. He has the paranoia of a former serial cheater, where he's kept the constant fear of being caught despite not longer doing anything he could be caught for.

“Inhale,” Helene says, “with your diaphragm, not your chest. Then as you breathe out, bear down. Bear down like you're pushing. Imagine a string through your body, from your uterus to the top of your head. Close your eyes and imagine your breath traveling along that string as you… _push_ your baby out. Practice these types of breaths more as your due date gets close.”

Harry is complying, but he looks sort of faintly amused; when he opens his eyes, he mouths, “Imagine a _string_ ,” and Zayn has to look away so he doesn't crack up laughing.

Heather starts going around to correct everyone's breathing. The room the class is held in is this weird modernist space that's normally for yoga classes; there's gleaming white, sharp angled furniture and potted plants that trail their tendrils down the walls.

Louis had laughed when Zayn told him they were starting birthing classes (“He knows the kid comes out no matter how many books he reads, right?”) but Harry likes being as prepared as possible, and Zayn is happy to humor him. They’ve put a moratorium on arguing about whether the baby should be born at home or not. At this point, Zayn’s just praying that when Harry actually goes into labor, he’ll feel differently.

Harry does the breathing exercise a few more times. Zayn watches him; he looks deeply relaxed. When he’s finished, he glances warmly at Zayn, all flushed full lips and rosy cheeks. Zayn reaches out and presses a hand to his middle.

“He's active today,” Harry says. Zayn still can't feel the baby move, although Harry informs him each time he does. “Been kicking me in the kidneys. At least I think it's my kidneys...”

“Hey, you better cut that shit out,” Zayn says to the baby. “He needs those.”

Harry laughs his rich, bassy laugh.

“Hi there!” Heather chirps as she walks up. “How are you feeling, dad?”

“I'm alright,” Harry says agreeably.

“Have you kept up with Pilates, and everything?”

“Still doing Pilates, still doing yoga, still running, started boxing again a bit…” Harry ticks these off on his fingers. “I've been swimming, too.”

“Excellent!” Heather chirps. “You must have such a strong core, you’ll probably _breeze_ through labor.”

“We hope, yeah?”

“Show me your breathing,” Heather instructs, and then observes him. “Excellent... Fantastic. Harry…” she leans down to whisper. “Don't tell anyone, but you're my favorite student.”

“You're my favorite birthing coach,” Harry whispers back, and winks at her. She giggles and moves on to one of the other very posh couples gathered on yoga mats in a half-circle around them. Zayn watches her go.

“Is that weird, that she flirts with both of us, like?” he mutters.

“We're good-looking boys, even in our old age,” Harry says, getting into a yoga pose while they wait.

Zayn observes him. Whatever he's doing doesn't look very comfortable, but it produces a loud crack from Harry’s back and a contented sigh from him.

“I mean, you're pregnant, too,” Zayn points out.

Harry grins. “I wasn't going to mention this to you, but I think I'm getting _more_ attention lately, actually.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.”

“From who?”

“Mostly blokes, but women too.”

“Yeah, but like, where?”

Harry shrugs and reaches behind himself, pulling his leg up toward his back. “Everywhere. The shops, Cala’s school, wherever.”

Zayn gives him a look.

Harry laughs. “You don’t look happy about that.”

“I don't like it, is why!”

“Maybe you ought to come out with me everywhere,” Harry purrs, looking up at him with those large eyes and batting his lashes. He lets go of his leg and rests his hand on the dip of his waist, the tips of his fingers grazing his belly under the stretchy blue tee he’s got on. Zayn’s eyes rove over his body. Harry’s definitely curvier, lately; he's a fan of that. “Just hang off my side and remind everybody whose I am. Mr Big Alpha.”

“Maybe I should,” Zayn says.

Harry snorts.

“Did you see we’re the cover of the Mirror today, by the way?”

Harry settles onto his back on the yoga mat and lifts up his leg, bending it up toward his head and flexing his foot against his palm. “Christ… slow news day?”

“I’m assumin’.”

“What was the photo?”

“Us leaving Whole Foods. And the caption was like, _Hazza’s miracle baby! All the details that’re fit to print!_ ”

Harry snorts. “I’m glad everyone’s being so relaxed and normal about this,” he deadpans, drawling the word normal.

“Well, people love you, mate.”

“I love them back, but I’d like them to get out of my uterus.”

“They didn’t mention me at all,” Zayn says, trying not to sound as bitter about this as he is. “At least on the cover. Despite that I’m, y’know. In the photo.”

“Figures. Every piece they write is like, you’re either cheating on me constantly, or they talk like you’re my sperm donor. I have a total PR barrage planned for when we get married, I’m going to blitz the shit out of them.”

“Why d’you think they’re like this about us?” Zayn mutters. “I never quite figured it out. It’s pretty romantic, the story of us, innit? And the American ones treat us like we’re the second comin’ of Brangelina, but the British rags are like… I don’t even know.”

Harry shrugs and sits up. “I reckon you were right when you said they don’t want us to be together,” he admits. “I didn’t _want_ to think that. I thought when everyone found out I was pregnant, the narrative would change. But I guess -- I mean, you were all living in London when the big story was that endless love triangle shit. Tabloids have long institutional memories. ‘Specially here, ‘cos it's so tight-knit. Well, you know as well as I do.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, as decades worth of guilt floods briefly over him.

“Love, it’s alright,” Harry says, giving him a bright smile. “I don’t care, you know I don’t. As long as they’re not libeling us.”

“I care.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ , love.”

Zayn sighs.

“Alright everyone,” Heather calls, returning to the front of the room. “This next exercise is for both parents… I just sent a quiz to all of your watches. I want you to take it and figure out what your love language is. Then we’ll break off into small groups and decide what kind of labor support will be best for each couple.”

Harry squeezes his arm. “I already know my love languages,” he whispers.

“No idea what you're talking about, babe, but good,” Zayn whispers back.

 

LONDON, NOVEMBER 28, 2038

“So I’m thinkin’, for this place we’re building right now,” Niall says, gesturing. “No stairs. One floor. ‘Cos I’m really sort of goin’ deaf in me old age, and they’re all always fuckin’ yellin’ at me from upstairs and I can’t hear none of it. And hardly any doors, maybe? As few doors as possible. Just really open.”

“A rambler?” Louis says, and swigs his beer. “With an open plan and almost no doors? On the cliffs of Dublin.”

“Sounds nice, right?”

Louis chuckles, wiping foam off his lip. “Sounds windy, mate. What does Barb think?”

“Jimmy’s going to want doors in a few years,” Liam intones, as he gets up to tend to the fire. “Trust me.”

Harry puts his feet up on the coffee table. They’re all piled on the couches in the sunken portion of Louis’ den, catching up. Outside, miserable November rain is pissing down in chilly sheets.

Zayn comes back in with a bowl of nachos, tailed closely by Mia, who waits for him to set them down on the coffee table and then immediately digs into them.

“Hey,” Zayn protests. “‘S that the only reason you came in here?”

“No, I also want to say the entertainment panel in the south wing hall bathroom is broken,” Mia says. “It’s stuck on the weather channel and a language-learning app. I’ve learned like three new words in Spanish today. Also, in case you weren't aware, it’s raining.”

“Shit,” Liam says. “I’ll have somebody out to see about it.”

“Don’t you have work today?” Zayn says to her, settling next to Harry on the couch and wrapping his arm around him. Harry’s been queasy and quiet this afternoon; once he was past the initial excitement over seeing Niall again, it got obvious he’s not feeling well.

Mia clears her throat.

“Would this be a bad time to announce that I quit my job?” she says, with a wan smile.

“ _What?_ ” Louis exclaims, setting his beer down loudly on the table. “I thought you'd just taken the day off! Since when?”

“Um, technically two weeks ago,” Mia mutters, folding her arms and looking down. “I didn’t want to leave them in the lurch, so I kept going in to train my replacement…”

“When was I going to find out about this, exactly?” Louis demands.

“Can we discuss this later?” Liam says gently. “Or more privately?”

“Hang on, who’s _we?_ ” Zayn says, chesty, leaning over Harry like he’s a piece of furniture. Harry knits his brow at this. “‘Cos I’d like to be involved in the conversation?”

Niall glances awkwardly around between the five of them, then pulls the nachos over toward himself and starts eating them.

“You weren’t going to say anythin’ to me?” Louis says, looking up at her incredulously. She looks back at him defiantly, her mouth a hard slant.

“That job wasn’t _going_ anywhere!”

“I thought you wanted to be a director! I thought you wanted to pay your dues!”

“You’re not listening! I wasn’t going anywhere, there!” Mia shouts back at him. “This theater is a pit, they haven’t been in the black in years! The management’s got no idea what they’re doing! It was a waste of my time and energy and my education!”

“Why hadn’t you _told_ me any of this?”

“Because I wanted to be independent, Dad! I didn’t want your help, or his, or his,” Mia says, pointing at Liam and Zayn. “Or _his_ ,” she adds, gesturing to Harry.

Harry, all scowly mouth and dark undereye circles, looks bemusedly up at her.

“I don’t like you getting a habit of just quitting things,” Louis says, running his hand through his hair. “It’s a shitty way to be.”

“Oh, thanks, Louis,” Zayn snaps.

“Christ, I wasn’t swipin’ at you, relax.”

“How’s that _not_ a swipe at me?”

Mia starts backing away, shaking her head. “If you're just going to make this an excuse to get into it, I’m out of here,” she says.

“Hang on, I’m not done talking to you!” Louis calls after her.

“You're being a hypocrite, anyway!” she shouts. “You’ve just quit your job, haven't you?”

“I quit being the head of a company I created and’ve been at for nearly _twenty years_ , for the sake of my family! Not the same, love!”

Mia scoffs, turns on her heel and leaves the room, the door slamming shut behind her. Liam clasps his palms together and rubs his index fingers against the bridge of his nose, sighing.

Louis starts to get up, but Liam pulls him back down.

“Just give her some space,” he says quietly, patting Louis on the back. “She’s an adult, remember that. She can make these decisions herself.”

“What’s goin’ on with her, lately?” Zayn says, making sort of accusatory eye contact with Louis. Louis stares hard back at him, and he glances down to unnecessarily adjust his watch band.

Harry leans his head back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling, his arms folded.

“She’s got twenty-two year old problems,” Louis says. “Growing pains.”

“She’ll be fine,” Liam says amiably, rubbing Louis’ shoulder. “It just seems dramatic because she’s at the age for everything to be dramatic. Her job really wasn’t going anywhere, she’s talked to me about it since she started there. It’s okay that she quit, she’ll find something else, she’s smart and ambitious.” He clears his throat. “Harry.”

“Yeah?” Harry says.

“Want some ginger ale?”

“I’m alright for now,” Harry says softly, bringing his gaze back down to earth.

Zayn seems to suddenly come back into the reality of his unhappy pregnant fiancé sitting next to him. He glances at Harry and pulls him closer, stroking his arm. “You sure?”

Harry nods.

Niall is observing all of this impassively. He starts to speak, and they all jump a little.

“What, forget I was here?” he says, laughing.

“It’s just you’ve been so quiet,” Liam says with a grin.

“I had a face full of nachos. Look, didn’t she just have a bad breakup? I mean, we’ve all been there, right?”

“When’ve you been there?” Zayn says, clearly still prickly.

Niall’s gaze snaps to him. “That a joke?” he says, amused in his typically affable way.

Harry looks incredulous. “Zayn, he’s literally been _divorced!_ ”

“Oh, shit,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “I completely forgot, since you’re back together... sorry, bruv…”

Harry draws his tongue over his teeth, clearly annoyed with him.

Niall flaps his hand. “‘S’alright, you and me weren’t exactly talking back then.”

Harry gets up, striding across the room toward the door.

“Where are you off to,” Zayn calls after him.

“Ginger ale,” Harry shouts back.

“I could’ve gotten that for you!” Liam exclaims.

The door shuts heavily behind him, although he doesn’t let it slam like Mia did. They all look at each other. Louis gets to his feet.

“I’ll go after him,” he says wearily.

“Christ, it’s like a stage play in here,” Niall comments, cracking open another beer. “All t’ dramatic exits… Bring back some crisps?”

Louis laughs. “What kind?”

Niall shrugs. “Whichever.”

Louis finds Harry in the kitchen as promised, staring into the fridge with his hand on his hip, tapping his foot.

“We’ve got a SodaStream,” Louis tells him. “It’s on the front, there.”

“I saw it,” Harry mutters. “Got a glass already.”

“So you just wanted to get out of there?”

Harry makes a noise of assent.

“I’ve got some anti-nausea meds,” Louis says, grabbing a bag of crisps for Niall and hopping up onto a barstool. He waves his watch at the ceiling and taps the screen to dim the lights a little.

“Thanks,” Harry says softly, turning around and resting his elbows on the counter and his chin against his hand. “Trying to stay away from pharmaceuticals if I can.”

Louis smiles at him. “Talk to me, then.”

Harry heaves a gusty sigh. “It isn’t anything, really. Just… sometimes he’s the sweetest, most sensitive person, and sometimes he’s just… you know?”

“I know. I think you could say that about most blokes, really.”

A corner of Harry’s lips tilt up.

“And I know how Zayn is, in particular.”

Harry nods. “I feel bad, bending your ear with this,” he says, “‘cos I know none of it’s news to you...”

Louis shrugs.

Harry puts his head down, his forehead against the marble counter. “I just had this romantic notion about having his baby,” he says, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his white jumper. “And reality keeps bumping up against it. Like… I dunno. I even had this weird fantasy to go away somewhere tropical, when we first found out. Just be out of the city, away from the paps and, no offense, everyone else. Just, like, the three of us in a cabin on a beach somewhere.”

“No offense taken. I get the impulse.”

“And just have him feed me coconut all day, and lie on the beach, and like, give birth in the ocean and wear clothes made of leaves or something, like that Brooke Shields movie.”

“Alright, you’ve completely lost me, lad.”

Harry lifts his head and grins at him. “But… you know?”

“I know,” Louis assures him. “I also know being pregnant makes you cranky, and it makes you think your man is especially annoying, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“He even smells wrong sometimes, lately,” Harry whispers conspiratorially. “Not bad, just wrong? It’s the _weirdest_ fucking thing.”

“Completely normal.”

Harry takes his hand and squeezes it. “Listen… I’m grateful for you,” he says. “I’ve got a lot of friends who’ve had kids, and they just... I dunno... with the sort of people I’m friends with, it’s always about one-upping each other about who did pregnancy the best, who’s the crunchiest, whatever. It’s nice to have somebody besides my sister who’s just frank with me, no pressure...”

Louis is surprised by this. He didn’t think Harry thought of it like that.

“Happy to help,” he says.

 

*

 

Zayn dotes hard on Harry when he comes back, and Harry, in his easy-to-please way, is immediately mollified. Within minutes, they’re whispering all cute again, and Harry has his hand on Zayn’s thigh.

Niall broaches the subject that he’s been thinking about going back into the studio, which Louis perks up at hearing.

“For what?” he says. “Just noodling around?”

Niall shrugs. “I’ve got a few songs,” he says. He seems to be choosing his words carefully. “I dunno, I’d have to actually get in there and get a backin’ band in to fill out t’ sound, give me an idea of what I’m really working with.”

“Zayn,” Harry murmurs, “could you please fetch me --”

Zayn is up off the couch before he’s finished his sentence, looking at him expectantly.

“-- a glass of water?”

Zayn nods and saunters off.

“Two ice cubes, please,” Harry calls after him. “Thank youuu… Wait, so you want to actually record these?” he says to Niall.

Niall scratches his neck and makes a noncommittal expression. “I mean, maybe? I miss music, I dunno.”

“I miss it too,” Liam says. “Singing, I mean.”

“Yeah, same,” Louis says, finishing off his third beer and leaning on Liam. “Didn’t think I would, but…”

“I miss you all,” Harry says quietly.

Niall glances over at him. “What, the band?”

“Yeah…”

Niall laughs. “I mean, me too, but we knew that, didn’t we?”

“Louis and I have actually been thinking about recording together again,” Liam says, sounding a little hesitant.

“That’s funny... me and Zayn have talked about that too,” Harry says, smiling. “Recording, like, as a couple.”

“Wait, seriously?” Louis says. “He’s comin’ off his whole Madonna thing?”

Harry nods.

Niall raises his eyebrows. “So… wait. Do we all… are we all…?”

Louis laughs. “Are we talkin’ about something here? What are we talking about?”

“I’ve got the same question,” Niall says, setting his empty beer down.

Liam gets up to go stoke the fire. He stands there pushing at the logs, his brow knitted like he’s thinking.

Louis is tipsy and warm all over, feeling a little bolder than usual. “That isn’t something we could do, is it?”

“I have no idea if…” Liam breaks off. “Wow, I hadn’t considered this for years, honestly.”

“Me neither,” Niall says.

“Is anyone going to say the actual words, or are we going to keep talking around it like weirdos?” Harry drawls.

“We could do a reunion Christmas album,” Niall suggests.

“Well, there it is,” Liam says amiably. “It’s out there in the universe, now.”

He replaces the poker over the fireplace and returns to Louis, who nuzzles up against him.

“This is sort of silly,” Louis says, tamping down his own interest. “We’ve got no idea how he feels about it. Probably he’d shoot it down.”

“I could work on him a bit,” Harry says. “Press my advantage…”

The door opens, and they all start. Zayn comes back over and sets Harry’s water down on the table, then realizes everyone is staring at him.

He glances between them apprehensively. “Wassup?”

“How d’you feel about Christmas albums, mate?” Niall says.

Zayn shrugs. “Sort of corny. Why?”

Niall gestures. “Well, there you go.”

“It’s Zayn, he thinks everything is corny,” Louis says, flapping his hand dismissively.

“It doesn’t _have_ to be a Christmas album,” Harry says.

“‘It?’” Zayn repeats. “Sorry, what?”

Harry reaches out and tugs Zayn by the back of his jacket, pulling him back down onto the couch. He nestles closer to him, stretching his long legs out over Zayn’s lap, and Zayn absentmindedly wraps an arm around him and brings him nearer, then laces his hands together over the side of Harry’s belly while bouncing his curious stare between Niall, Louis and Liam.

“How d’you feel about recording with us again?” Harry murmurs sweetly, reaching up and straightening his collar. “All four of us?”

Zayn starts laughing, then looks around and sees no one else is.

“You're not _serious_ , like?”

“We’re a tiny bit serious,” Louis says.

Zayn rubs at his facial hair. “Shit,” he says. “I hadn’t thought about that in ages.”

“Us neither,” Liam says.

“We'd actually discussed telling you no if you said you wanted to come back,” says Louis, who's mouthy from the alcohol.

Zayn sucks in some air through his teeth. “Ouch, thanks.”

“This was like eighteen years ago, mate.”

“Then I can tell you the interest on my end at the time was less than zero,” Zayn says with a tense laugh.

“What's the interest level now?” Niall says, settling back against the couch. It puts Louis at ease just to look at him; he's the most dad-like of any of them, and the only one that hasn't had Botox. He's got a little beer gut and lots of smile lines, and he's stopped dyeing his hair; it’s a warm ashy color from the grays growing in.

Zayn sighs and rubs his hand over Harry’s stomach, like it’s a talisman. “Fuck. I dunno. Can I take a while and think about it?”

“No,” Liam intones jokingly, “you've got to decide right this second or the offer expires forever.” Zayn laughs. “Yeah, go ahead. I mean, we're just talking, aren't we? Isn't like we've got songs in the pipe or anything.”

“Where's Julian these days?” Louis asks him.

“I want to say Amsterdam?”

“Hmm…”

At this, Zayn picks up Harry’s water and drinks half of it, looking jumpy. Harry gets a knowing look and slides his hand up under his jacket, rubbing his back.

“Zayn, we aren't doin’ this _tomorrow_ , relax,” Louis says.

“I'm relaxed!”

Harry laughs gaily and wraps his arms around Zayn's neck.

“Christmas album,” Zayn mutters. “Christ…”

“Let's spitball alternatives,” Niall says. “Album of Nickelback covers.”

Louis grins. “Album of Australian drinking songs.”

“Experimental rap album.”

“Gregorian chants album,” Liam suggests.

“Album of spoken word,” Harry deadpans. “Just my voice, no one else gets to talk. You all can play the bongos, though.”

“Wait, let's leave Zayn out of it, but do an acoustic covers album of his songs,” Niall says, and they all fall out laughing, except for Zayn.

“I'll sue all of you,” he says, suppressing a smile.

Niall fingers and strums an imaginary guitar. “It's our paradise, it’s our war zone,” he sings in a heavy brogue.

Zayn is horrified by this and cuts his eyes at him; Louis laughs raucously.

“Is that still the only song of mine you know?” he says in disbelief. “I've made seven albums!”

Niall grins and doesn't respond.

“Hey, you can't sue me if we get married,” Harry says. “I think that's illegal.”

“Then let's postpone the weddin’ so I can sue you before it’s final.”

“You wouldn't _sue_ me! I've got your baby in me!” he says, heavy on the dramatics.

“Try me.”

Niall gets the giggles all over again, which makes Louis laugh in turn, and it's a few more minutes before they settle down again.

“So no Christmas album?” Liam says. “Bummer.”

“You and _me_ can still do a Christmas album,” Louis points out.

“Hey, but I want in,” Niall says. “Fuckin’ love Christmas music.”

“The three of you can't record without me,” Harry pipes up.

“So I reckon we're back where we started,” Louis says, laughing.

Zayn heaves a very loud, long-suffering sigh. After a moment of quiet, he mutters, “It depends, like… on the... do we actually have to be in the studio together, which Christmas songs it’d be… what's the profit-sharing… Are you going to have to put me back on the band incorporation? Like, _maybe…_ ”

“Calm down, mate, you're bein’ way too enthusiastic here,” Louis ribs him.

“I’m not sayin’ no,” Zayn says. He hesitates. “Not saying yes, mind. Just not no, either.”

Liam goes over to stoke the fire one last time before it dies. He leans on the mantle and looks fondly over at the four of them.

“We’ll take it,” Louis says, and winks at Zayn.

 

*

 

“Mia,” Louis calls, knocking on her door.

There's no answer. Louis, Liam and Zayn exchange glances.

“Mia!” Louis shouts, putting his hand to the panel on the wall. It flashes red and doesn't let him in.

“What?” she shouts.

“We -- I wanna talk!”

There's a pause.

“Hang on, are all _three_ of you out there?” she calls.

“Shit,” Liam whispers. “I can go, if you want.”

“No, ‘cos you're the one she was confidin’ in about work, we need you,” Louis whispers back. Zayn nods reluctantly.

“Well, only one of us should go in,” Liam says.

“Rock paper scissors?” Zayn suggests.

Louis rolls his eyes. “I gave birth to her, I'll go in,” he says.

“You pull that card a _lot_ ,” Zayn rejoinders.

The door slides open to reveal Mia, squinting at them. “Let's just all go downstairs, you lunatics,” she says, and leads the way down the hall.

“Not nice to call your parents lunatics,” Louis calls after her.

“Not nice to be raised by lunatics,” she hollers back as she descends the massive spiral staircase.

In the kitchen, they find Oliver has gotten home and is regaling an attentive Niall with some story of rugby glory while Harry tries to get the AI in the fridge to cooperate with him.

“Oh, hey, everybody's here,” Oliver says, glancing up. “Where's Cala?”

“With her cousins,” Harry says, stabbing his fingers against the touchpad. “Why do you only make slushies?” he says to it. “I want a smoothie.”

Mia opens the fridge and starts pulling out fruit. “I can make you one. I just bought some kale.”

“Thank God for you.”

Oliver comes out of the darker end of the kitchen into the light, and Louis sees a fresh bruise blossoming around his eye. There's dirt on his clothes and in his hair, too, and a scrape on his hand.

“Jesus!” he exclaims, coming close to Oliver, who makes a sheepish face and stands still as his father examines him. “What happened to you?”

Oliver ducks his head, shaking off Louis’ hands. He's about a half an inch taller than him, now. “Rugby,” he mutters.

“You didn't have rugby today,” Louis says, parental nerves spiking in his chest.

“It was a pickup game,” Oliver tries.

“Mmm, I don't believe you. What happened?”

Oliver drags in a breath and exhales heavily. “Claire's boyfriend jumped me when I was leaving her house.”

“Hang on, _what_?” Liam exclaims, coming around the island and gently taking Louis by the hips to move him so he can examine Oliver’s eye. He gently presses his thumb to various spots on the bone of his eye socket. “Does that hurt?”

“Not really, it only hurts where the bruise is,” Oliver says.

Liam sighs in relief. “Did you lose consciousness at all?”

“Dad, Christ, no. I’d have gone to the hospital if I did.”

“Since when does Claire have a boyfriend who’s not you?” Louis demands.

Oliver winces. “Since year nine?”

“ _Oliver!”_

“I'm sorry! God! He’s sort of an arsehole, she said they were on the outs and she was going to dump him, I took her word for it, but apparently not, I dunno… Anyway, he read her watch and saw some texts between us.”

Mia starts the blender going and clears her throat quietly.

Louis whips his head in that direction. “Did you know about this?” he says to her.

“Yes,” she says simply. “And I didn't approve of it at fucking _all_ , I want to add.”

“Mia!”

“He asked me not to tell you."

_"So?"_

"We've got a code!”

Liam's eyes narrow. “Did you know Mia had quit her job?” he says to Oliver.

He glances away guiltily. “Yes…”

Louis is made incredulous by this, and throws his hands in the air. “Alright, then!”

Niall stands. “Hey, lads, maybe I ought to head out?”

“No, please don't leave me,” Harry whispers to him. Niall relents.

“We can press charges against this kid,” Liam says to Oliver.

“No, Dad!” Oliver pleads. “That's so lame, like! C’mon, didn't you ever get in fights in school?”

“No, that was this one,” Liam says, jabbing his thumb in Louis’ direction.

“Why d’you say that like my faulty genes are at work, here?”

“You read so much into _one_ sentence, Tommo.”

“You hit ‘im back?” Zayn interjects.

Oliver nods. “Sort of. He tackled me from behind when I was walking, I had earbuds in…”

“Oh, _dirty_ ,” Harry says. “Fuck this kid.”

“And we sort of fell on the ground, I'm used to scrums so I got in a few good jabs on him, but then he managed to get up and he kicked me in the eye --” (Liam winces hard when he says this) “-- and ran away like a little tosser. I'm fine, I swear.”

Louis sucks in a breath. “Oh, sonny boy,” he says sympathetically, stroking Oliver’s hair. Oliver shrugs.

“Guess that's why you don't screw around with other people's girlfriends,” he says simply.

“Not t’ smartest move, no,” Niall agrees. He's come over to Harry and is pouring himself a bowl of cereal while Harry sips his smoothie.

“Before we forget, I want to hear about Yasmeen quittin’ her job,” Zayn says.

Mia rolls her eyes. “Let's not, maybe?”

Harry shifts uncomfortably against the counter, making a face and pressing a hand to the underside of his stomach. He's green around the gills again. Louis notices with a faint twinge that he's looking much more undeniably pregnant, now.

“‘Scuse me,” he mutters, taking his glass with him.

Zayn looks from his departing fiancé, to his daughter, and back again.

“You should follow him,” Liam instructs, pointing helpfully.

“But --” Zayn turns to Mia. “Hang on. I just want to make sure, with your job and this breakup, you're not, like, spiraling --”

“I'm not spiraling, Dad, I swear to you. I have some interviews lined up, alright? And I'm spending time with friends I haven't had time to see since I left uni, since they were working opposite hours.” Mia shrugs. “I'm getting my life back in order, I'm fine.”

Zayn strokes her hair. “I just get nervous when you act like me,” he confesses in a quiet voice.

This tugs very painfully at Louis’ heart.

“I'm fine,” she insists. “Everyone worry about Oliver, not me.”

“Hey,” Oliver exclaims. “ _I'm_ fine.”

“You're dating girls with boyfriends and getting kicked in the face!” she retorts.

Oliver puts his hands up. “I'm going out back, I need air,” he says. Like Mia, he likes to kick a ball around when he's narky.

“Take an ibuprofen,” Louis instructs him.

Oliver takes one and dry-swallows it before slinking out of the kitchen.

“And our doctor’s looking at that eye, tomorrow!” Liam calls after him.

Zayn distractedly excuses himself to go after Harry. With both gone, the remaining four of them stand there, a little exhausted.

“Well, if that's the end of my testimony, I need to go work on my resume,” Mia says.

Louis beckons her over. She comes to him, and he pulls her in close and kisses her on the head. “Sorry for yelling earlier, love. Just worry about you, is all.”

“I know, I know,” she grumbles.

“You know we’re proud of you always, right?”

“Yes, Dad…” She glances over at him, and gives him a smile. “Of course I know that.”

He squeezes her. “Alright.”

With a wave, she follows Zayn out of the room, into the main hall.

Niall watches her go. “So’s every Saturday afternoon like this?” he says. “‘Cos I might start sellin’ tickets or something.”

Louis laughs hard. “Not usually,” he says. “Actually, it was properly calm for a while.”

“I miss that,” Liam says wistfully.

“You and I were barely talking,” Louis points out.

“Before _that,_ I mean. When Mims was at uni. Before Oliver became Billy all-the-mates.”

Niall looks up from his cereal. “When were you two barely talkin’?”

“This summer,” Louis says. “During our little, um, rough patch.”

“I didn't know it was _that_ bad,” Niall says. “Where was I?”

Louis and Liam look at each other in bafflement.

“... Golf?” Liam says. “Ireland? Australia? I dunno, where were you?”

Louis chortles. “‘Golf’ isn't a place, Payno.”

“Hey, you know what I mean.”

“Was in the states a lot, actually,” Niall puts in. “Guess that's why.”

“Oh, _that's_ right,” Louis says, nodding. “Duh. I knew that.”

“Aye, Barb’s mam’s been sick.”

“Is she doing any better?”

Niall nods emphatically. "Thank God."

“I think I'll go talk to our little homewrecker,” Liam says to Louis.

Louis sighs. “Alright. Keep me updated.”

“I will,” Liam says, and gives him a peck on the lips. He starts to pull back, but Louis catches him by the back of the neck and kisses him deeper. Liam grabs him around the waist and pulls him close, biting his bottom lip.

They separate after a moment.

“Love you,” Louis says, looking up into his warm eyes. “We're in this together, right?”

Liam smiles his sweet smile. “Always, Tommo.”

He swats him on the arse as he departs, and Louis laughs.

Niall observes all of this with fondness in his eyes and his sunny smile. “You two are alright, then?"

Louis nods, leaning against the island again. “Only took the biggest romantic gesture of my whole fuckin’ life.”

“Hey, you do whatever it takes.”

Louis smiles. “Y’know, I thought of that talk we had, years ago.”

“Which one?”

“When you were separated from Barb, and I was pregnant with Oliver? About marriage, an’ all that.”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Niall says, nodding. “Totally forgotten about that. Glad you value me opinion so much.”

“Course I do, Neil.”

Niall scowls good-naturedly at him. Louis laughs.

 

*

 

Zayn finds Harry being sick in the downstairs bathroom. He shuts the door behind them, which turns out to be a bad idea, because the bathroom is massive and every heave and gag echoes once it’s closed.

“Oh, babe,” Zayn says softly, dragging an opulent footstool over to sit on. It's garnet and gold, to match the shower curtain and the walls. Liam must have designed this room; it's gaudy in the way he likes.

“I'm alright,” Harry says weakly, from where he's curled around the toilet.

Zayn finds one of Mia’s hair ties on the counter and pulls Harry’s hair back for him, then sits behind him and rubs his back in gentle circles. “I didn't realize you were feelin’ this lousy.”

“Me either,” Harry says. His voice is hoarse. “I thought this bit had ended?”

“Sometimes it comes back, I reckon? Louis barfed in me car once on the way to a doctor’s appointment, an’ ‘e was like, eight months along.”

Harry laughs in the shaky way of someone who's been vomiting. “I'd like to avoid that if I can.”

Zayn presses kisses to his shoulders and spine. “Thanks for doin’ this…”

“What?” Harry says, and then gags like he might hurl again, but doesn't. The toilet flushes automatically in response, anyway.

“Having our baby.”

“Oh, love, I've always wanted to have your baby," Harry murmurs. "Ever since we first started dating, way back when."

Zayn gets a pang at the wistful way he says this.

"Besides... how else would we do it?"

“I dunno, we talked about a surrogate," Zayn says.

“No,” Harry says. His voice grows a bit flinty. “I want to do this, I want to carry him and I want to birth him by myself, on my own time, with nobody  cutting me open --”

He breaks off and rests his forehead against his arm.

Zayn has a sudden and stinging realization. Of course Harry doesn't want to have their baby in the hospital; the procedure he had after his miscarriage was the worst part of the entire thing for him. He had come home and laid in bed crying inconsolably for hours.

“Alright,” Zayn says softly. “Let's do it however you like.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You won't freak out?”

“As long as you and the baby are healthy and safe, Haz, I don't care if you give birth on the A1 while you're jugglin’ knives.”

Harry laughs weakly. Zayn presses his face to Harry’s back, breathing in the nice smell of him, his hands resting on his hips.

 

*

 

On the front steps before they leave, Louis slips Zayn some weed.

“I feel like you need this more than I do,” he whispers.

Zayn accepts it gratefully. “Hey… tell Yas she's still always welcome to come babysit Cala when she needs some time out of that shitty little flat of hers. I know it's lonely when you've got nowhere you need to be, nobody to hold you accountable…”

“Zayn,” Louis says softly, smiling up at him, his eyes twinkling in the dusk. The rain has stopped, and everything is glowing with caught droplets; the spill of lamplight on the cobblestone circular drive, the leaves of the flowers in Liam's garden, the handrail along the steps. “What happened to you won't happen to her, I promise.”

“Maybe it will,” Zayn whispers. “You don't know, mate.”

“She hasn't got bipolar two.”

“You don't _know_ ,” Zayn says more urgently. “This is exactly when I started havin’ symptoms!”

“Mia has never been manic in her life,” Louis says calmly. “I promise. And even if she did -- you've been treated with that brain wave shit, haven’t you? You don't even take meds anymore.”

“Louis,” Zayn says, his voice harsh and intense in his own ears. “You have _got_ to take this more seriously, alright?”

Louis’ eyes search his face; his expression grows less confident and more concerned as he looks at Zayn.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, I'll keep an eye on her.”

“Thanks,” Zayn says.

Louis hugs his arms to himself. “Go home, go take care of your fiancé,” he says, with a little smile. “Enjoy the pot.”

Zayn laughs.

Harry is quiet on the drive back. Halfway through, he lies down on his side with his head in Zayn's lap. Zayn is zoned out, watching the yellow streetlights pass in the window against the black of nighttime London. Up front, Stefan is watching a cop procedural he's got displayed on the windscreen. Zayn watches parts of it out of the corner of his eye, catching random dialogue via the closed captioning.

“I'm scared for when our kids are teenagers,” Harry murmurs, rolling over to look up into his eyes. “I don't want them getting in fights and shit.”

“These things happen, Haz,” Zayn says, stroking his hair. “You know that. Oliver’s not a bad kid.”

“Right, that's the scary bit, is that he isn't.”

“Everything ain't always perfect,” Zayn says. “You’ve got no idea who your kids are going to be. All you can do is try your best.”

Harry nods, smoothing down his jumper over the baby bump and rests his hands against it. Zayn reaches over and slips his fingers under Harry’s.

There's a faint jab under his palm. Zayn’s heart starts pounding in excitement.

“Wait, I felt him finally!”

“Really? No way!” Harry says, sitting up. He tugs his jumper off over his head so he's just in a tee and sits criss-cross, bringing Zayn’s hand back to the firm, warm surface of his stomach. “I think he's right…” he positions his hand on his right side, where his ribs end. “Here…?”

They wait a minute or so, breathlessly expectant, and then there's another kick, right underneath Zayn’s palm. He lets out a laugh of joy.

“Forgot how incredible that is,” he says.

“Baby,” Harry murmurs, beaming, all shining teeth and dimples.

“Baby Des…”

“Little Des,” Harry sings.

“The littlest Des.”

“The smallest Des in London.”

They laugh like idiots.

Harry shakes his wrist to get his watch on and opens the notepad app over his forearm, then very quickly writes something with his finger and shuts it off again.

“What was that?” Zayn says, still cupping his belly, wanting to feel more kicks.

“I made a note of that,” Harry says, a little sheepishly. “That you felt him almost exactly at twenty-three weeks.”

“God, Styles, you're going to write this entire kid’s life down.”

“I like knowing these things!”

Zayn takes Harry’s hands in his and lifts them to his mouth, kissing them. “Hey,” he says, after Harry’s engagement ring catches his eye. “Yo. When’re we going to get married?”

“Yo?” Harry says, laughing. “Yo… when're we going to get married, dude? What's up, bruv?”

“Hmm, he dodges me valid and romantic question with mockery…”

“After the holidays,” Harry says, squeezing his hand. “Any time after New Years is fine by me.”

“Excellent.”

 

*

 

Louis crawls into bed, rubbing his fancy night cream into his hands. Liam is squinting over his glasses at his tablet, which is displaying this month’s copy of _Horticulture Magazine_.

“So,” Liam says with a chuckle, looking over at him as he settles onto their pillows. “Earlier, I thought of something...”

“Hit me with it.”

“Remember when Zayn punched me?”

Louis squints at him. “That’s a random thing to bring up.”

“Is it?” Liam says, smiling.

Louis thinks about it for a moment, and then the penny drops.

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You're right. Guess he really is your son, isn’t he?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Liam immediately sobers. “Not that I’m proud of him, for this…”

“Noo, not even a little,” Louis teases.

“There’s nothing positive about this situation, at all.” Liam bites the inside of his cheek. “I just sympathize, is all.”

Louis snuggles up against him, and Liam wraps his arm around him.

“Best Claire isn’t pregnant,” Louis says.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Liam cries. “Don’t say shit like that, don’t put that out in the universe.”

“I told you I caught him about to have sex with her.”

“I know, I talked to him. Scared the crap out of him, I think.”

“Good. I don’t need to make a sixty-something great-grandmother out of me poor mum.”

Louis stretches his arm out and holds Liam across his broad, warm chest, stroking his thumb over the soft, worn fabric of the old tee he’s wearing to bed. Liam kisses him on the head like he often does.

“Reckon I was about as pregnant then as Harry is right now, when he hit you,” Louis says. “Shit, maybe even down to the week, like. That feels like a hundred years ago.”

“Twenty-three years,” Liam says. “A little more, in fact. ‘Cos I remember it was September.”

“You remember that?”

Liam lets out a mirthless laugh and nods slowly. “Oh, yeah. Remember the entire thing very well.”

“Oh, Payno,” Louis says, squeezing his shoulder.

“Hey, it’s all in the past,” he says lightly. “Just… brought back some memories, is all.”

Louis studies him. “Hey, full disclosure on something?”

Liam glances at him with anxiety in his dark eyes. “Shit. Sure. What?”

“How many kids did you originally want with me?”

“Oh, Louis, you know I’m perfectly happy --”

“No, no, I know, I know. But think back to like, when we first got married. When you thought about kids. How many did we have together, in your wildest dreams?”

Liam sighs. “Four.”

“Four? _Four?_ ”

“Yeah, four.”

“Including Mia, right?”

“No, babe, not including Mia.”

“You wanted me to have _five babies?”_ Louis exclaims.

Liam looks embarrassed. “Well, obviously it wasn’t going to actually happen!”

“You do know if you’d gotten me pregnant four times we’d be divorced right now,” Louis tells him.

“D’you have to be so dramatic?” Liam says, pulling him closer, manhandling him a little and kissing him on the head. “I got the bloke I wanted. That’s all that matters.”

Louis, warmed by his affection, rests his face on Liam’s chest. Liam presses his cheek to the top of his head. “Me too,” he says softly.

 

KENSINGTON, NOVEMBER 28, 2038

Zayn sits in his study, somewhat anxious. He’d planned to go to an AA meeting tonight, but the one at the church down the road apparently started at ten, not eleven, and he’s missed it. He hates missing meetings.

He and Louis are coaching one of Cala’s games again tomorrow, the last one before the team gets a real coach. Louis is going to meet him at the pitch, and then after the hour is up, that’s it. They won’t have a thing to collaborate on, anymore. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed working on something with Louis that isn’t parenting.

Zayn smokes the weed Louis gave him and sits there, his head spinning in the darkness.

He’s fumbly with his hands as he turns his watch on and then pops open his music library. He hits search, hesitates, and then types.

Zayn’s never listened to this album in its entirety, or even any of it past the first two singles. He was always too afraid. It felt like stepping around a minefield, considering the state of mind Liam and Louis were in when they led the creation of it, considering they were fucking, considering they hated him.

But he might want to record with them again. It’s a very new little bud of possibility inside him, so he’s being gentle with it, but he thinks he really might want to.

The album has aged fairly well, for pop rock. He even might like it, if he weren’t sitting here obsessing over which lyrics are about him and mired in sucking, walloping guilt over the pain in the voices of his (at the time) pregnant ex-boyfriend, and the ex-boyfriend who was still in love with him when he left. Who stayed in love with him for years.

“ _I try to forgive you, but I struggle 'cos I don't know how_ ,” sings Harry’s lovely voice, making him cringe in shame. “ _We built it up so high, and now I'm fallin'_...”

It’s taking so much effort for Zayn to subject himself to this that he doesn’t even notice at first when Harry opens the door.

He immediately makes a face at the smell. “Love, could you not smoke weed in the house while I’m pregnant?”

The way he says weed is sort of funny. Zayn fumbles to shut his watch off. “Yeah, yeah, sorry.”

Harry eyes him and turns the light on. He’s silhouetted against the bookshelves in a stretchy t-shirt, boxers and a very nice silk bathrobe. He looks silly and attractive at the same time, which he’s good at. He seems to get rounder by the day now.

“Are you, um... sitting here in the dark, smoking weed and listening to One Direction?”

“I missed a meeting,” Zayn mutters.

Harry sighs. “Ohh.”

He knows how missing meetings puts Zayn off-kilter. Zayn pats the couch next to him, and Harry comes over and sits.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says, in a stupid, stoned way.

Harry looks over at him. “For…?”

“For…” he gestures in the air, meaning to indicate the music, but it’s of course stopped playing and Harry just looks baffled.

Zayn reaches over and pats his knee. “Never mind.”

“What, for leaving the band?” Harry says, amused. “Right... we’ve really got to talk about that sometime. I don’t think you’ve gotten enough shit for that, yet.”

Zayn laughs hard and appreciatively. “Y’know, I like you, Styles.”

“Yeah? Might keep me around?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Why don’t you come to bed, silly man?” Harry says, getting up with surprising gracefulness. He extends a hand to Zayn and pulls him to his feet.

Upstairs, Zayn stands swaying with sleepiness as Harry fixes up the bed for them.

“It's a decent album,” he says, yawning. “I like it…”

“Which one?”

“ _Made in the A.M._ Only one I never really listened to.”

“You listened to the last three, right?”

“Aye, yeah. Well, parts of ‘em. On the radio, w’ever. ‘S’just, the fifth one --” he hesitates.

“Right… we made that during the bad time,” Harry says, shucking his robe off and getting under the covers. He pats Zayn’s side of the bed. 

Zayn sighs and pulls up the edge of the pristine white covers, getting under and coming toward the middle of the massive bed so he can cuddle up against Harry. “I don't wanna get into that.”

“Me neither,” Harry says gently, slipping his hand across Zayn’s chest.

Zayn kisses him, sliding his hands into his hair and cradling the back of his head. Harry snogs him hard back, gripping his waist. They sink back into the pillows, all warm wet mouths and eager shifting against each other.

But when Zayn starts sliding his hand into Harry’s boxers, Harry shifts and clears his throat.

“I sort of just wanted to kiss and go to bed,” Harry whispers reluctantly.

Zayn, who is almost fully hard by this point, looks at him incredulously.

“Look, I've just spent the afternoon being sick, the baby's been kicking me a lot…”

Zayn heaves a beleaguered sigh and lies his head against Harry’s shoulder. Harry strokes his hair.

“You don't mind if I get off next to you, do you?”

Harry's hand pauses. “Where would you put it… ?”

“Dunno, a sock?”

Harry draws back from him and makes a face. “Just go in the shower.”

Zayn huffs loudly. He complies, though, and has a lonely shower wank, running the water very hot.

The thought occurs to him while he's tugging on himself that Louis would let him come in a sock if he wanted. Maybe that's why they aren't together; because they both need someone who’ll tell them not to come in their socks, or not to lie around all day smoking weed, or not to go out wandering at three in the morning.

Those aren't things men do, they're things boys do. But Zayn misses them all the same.

When he returns to the bedroom all loose-muscled from the heat and the orgasm, Harry is sprawled across the middle of the bed, snoring.

Zayn climbs up next to him and tries to budge him. “Haz. You're literally right in the middle, mate, come on.”

Harry half-heartedly slaps at him with one hand, his eyes still closed. “Lea’me alooone…”

“Get over on your side!” Zayn whispers, nudging at Harry’s ribs with his hand.

Harry opens his eyes and scowls at him. “There's plenty of room! It's a massive bed…”

Zayn relents and crawls under the covers all shoved over to the corner, then waves the lights off.

Harry is still for a few more minutes, and then sits up to grab the body pillow he uses now and rolls onto his side, making room.

Zayn lies there in the dark, minorly annoyed, but not enough so to not snuggle close to Harry and spoon him. He’s very warm, these days. Zayn presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Your son’s still kicking me,” Harry grumbles.

“Oh, he's _my_ son?”

Harry chuckles and takes Zayn by the hand and pressing their palms to his middle. Zayn settles against the pillows and waits.

After a minute or so, there's a faint stirring under his skin. Zayn’s heart flutters warmly and he rests his forehead against Harry’s back.

“Hey,” he says softly, “he's still healthy, right?”

“Of course,” Harry murmurs, and yawns. “You were at the last appointment…”

“Right, just checking. Since you keep track of everythin’.”

“He's making all his milestones,” Harry assures him sleepily.

“Alright.”

Harry nudges him. “I know how you feel. Just want him out so I can breathe and relax, finally.”

“But then we can't relax,” Zayn says, “‘cos we gotta parent him and worry about him...” He sighs. “I've been parentin’ since I was twenty-two and I won't be have an empty house ‘til I’m sixty-four.”

“Good thing it's so simple and easy, raising children,” Harry deadpans. Zayn laughs.

 

LONDON, NOVEMBER 29, 2038

Harry is feeling physically better the next day, but more hormonal; he's short with Zayn all morning. Zayn doesn't help things by being in a bad mood, himself.

It's freezing temperatures outside and the sky is threatening to dump snow on then, but the other coach refuses to call off the match, so Zayn puts on long johns and stomps around digging out the equipment.

“Can I stay home?” Cala whines. She's standing in the middle of the seating room, waiting in her gear and shinguards as Zayn trudges back and forth past her, tossing footballs into the Rover.

“No,” he says. “‘Less you're sick. You sick?”

She shakes her head.

“If I'm going, you're going, kiddo.”

“Can me and Scott go for ice cream after?”

“ _Ice_ cream? It's zero degrees out!”

She pouts and acts like she's going to cry, which usually gets her her way with Harry.

As if summoned, Harry comes into the room wrapped up in several layered jumpers and a wool hat. “You're being quite loud,” he informs Zayn.

“Sorry, princess.”

He says it lightly, just ribbing him, but Harry cuts his eyes at him as he strides out to the car. “C’mon, Cala!” he shouts over his shoulder.

They ride over in silence. Cala listens to music, Harry stares out the window and Zayn texts with Louis.

 _Im a little bummed this Brian blokes taking over next week_ , he says to him.

_why lad lol I thought this gig stressed you out?_

_it does but i dunno. I like coaching w/ you. I like that Cala has her dad coaching her team. Feels good_

_You could always stay on,_ Louis says.

_Nah im not experienced enough. I could if you stayed on with me but I cant ask you to do that. It was just a temp thing, I know that. appreciated it a lot though._

Louis types for a while, then finally just says, _No problem mate x . Hope you’re all dressed warm, it’s fucking nowt degrees_

 

*

 

Cala grouses about how cold it is all the way up the hill to the pitch, but in minutes, she’s running around warming up and her parents are sitting on the bleachers freezing their arses off.

“You aren’t doing much coaching,” Harry mutters to him. They’re sitting sort of apart from the other parents.

Zayn shivers. “I told you, I don’t run the drills an’ shit ‘cos I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. Louis does.”

Harry eyes him. “He’s been really cooperative with this.”

Zayn shrugs. “He isn't very busy, these days.”

“You’ve got that in common.”

“Meow,” Zayn says mildly. “Everythin’ okay?”

Harry’s jaw is tight, but he nods.

A few minutes before the top of the hour, when the game’s set to kick off, Louis bounces over to them, rubbing his hands together and then blowing on them. He’s got on a fleece jacket that must be Liam’s, or something; it’s a little too big for him, and his hair is falling in his eyes in a way that makes him look younger.

“You ought to be movin’ around,” he tells them. “‘Specially Harry.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “I’ve got thermal things on.”

“How’s the team look?” Zayn says.

“Good,” Louis says cheerily. “We’ve got a good man in Scott. Midge is an excellent striker, Nicolas is a solid keeper… Um, I have high hopes for everyone else.”

“Cala doesn’t make your roster of valuables?” Zayn says, laughing.

Louis grins. “She’s enthusiastic, and she’s clearly having a good time, so that’s all that matters, really. I mean, they’re six, after all.”

“Nice to see you’ve calmed some in your old age,” Zayn tells him.

“Louis van Gaal I’m not.”

“Despite the name.”

“Despite the name, aye.”

They laugh.

“Anyway, Brian’ll see to that, I s’pose,” Louis says. He bites his lip. “I hate turning them over like this. He could be a shit coach, for all I know.”

“Didn’t you just turn your entire stable of musical talent over t’ some bloke in his late twenties?” Zayn says.

“A team! A pair of blokes. One of whom’s thirty, and they’re quite good at this. And I’m still chairman of the board, so I’ve got plenty of oversight.”

Zayn smiles knowingly at him.

“Well,” Louis says, pretend-huffy. “I did start the agency in _my_ twenties. And I didn’t have a mission statement except for not doing the things Simon did that I didn’t like. So I dunno how hard it can be, really.”

Zayn shakes his head. “You’re good at what you do, mate.”

Louis toes at the hard ground with a cleat. “Did,” he corrects with a sad little smile.

“Your career ain’t over yet,” Zayn reminds him.

Louis shakes his head. “Just a weird time for me.”

“I know.”

“Alright, I’ll get back to the kids,” Louis says, pulling his cap back on. “We’ve got the coin toss in a mo. Zayn, can you come help me get everyone rounded up when I give you the sign?”

Zayn nods to him, and he walks away toward the pitch.

Harry clears his throat and shifts in his seat. Zayn glances at him and sees that he’s flinty-eyed.

“What’s up?” he says carefully.

“Nothing,” Harry mutters.

“It’s something, I know you.”

“I don’t want to get into it, we’re in public.”

“Haz, please.”

Harry gets up, a bit unsteady on his feet, and walks away in the direction of the car park. Snow is beginning to fall.

Zayn goes after him. Louis catches his eye as he passes the goal line and mouths something to him, his hands spread in confusion; Zayn mouths _sorry_ and shrugs.

It’s cold enough that Zayn feels it in his teeth. He hurries to catch up with Harry’s long strides, whispering his name at first and then unabashedly, loudly calling it.

Harry stops and turns on his heel. “Shh, please,” he says, coming over to Zayn so they’re huddled beside a fir tree together. “I’m not trying to make a scene. I just wanted to get away, is all.”

“Why?”

“ _Why?_ ” Harry cries, staring at him in bafflement, his eyebrows arched. “Why? Come on, Zayn.”

Zayn stares at him in confusion. There’s snow in his hair. “What are you _talkin’_ about?”

Harry puts his hands on his hips and looks down at the ground, sighing. “D’you really think it doesn’t hurt me, to have you be cranky and irritable with me, and then light up all cheerful when you talk to Louis?”

Zayn is so shocked by this pronouncement, and so unready to respond to it, that he just sits right down on the ground, achy knees and all.

“Babe,” he says after a moment. “That’s crazy. I don’t live with Louis. He ain’t my partner of nine years. He’s a friend. Of course I’d act different around ‘im and not quite be myself, you’re not makin’ sense.”

“He’s not your _friend_ ,” Harry exclaims, a bit wild-eyed. “He’s your ex-boyfriend, Zayn, who you’ve got a child with, who you pined after for years, don’t be dense on purpose at me.”

Zayn’s face gets very hot, and he looks away. “When’d _this_ become a problem again?”

Harry straightens up and swipes at his nose. They trade off: Zayn looks at him, and he looks away, hands on his hips again.

“When we fought that one day, and you ran straight to him,” Harry mutters. “And came home to me smelling like weed.”

Zayn groans and hangs his head. “I knew you hated that. I fucking knew it.”

“Of course I hated it. I wasn’t about to give you a hard time about it, I was exhausted and upset and just wanted to make up with you. I mean God, Zayn, I’d just had another miscarriage.”

His voice catches painfully in his throat. Zayn wants to hold him, but he isn’t sure Harry wants him to.

“But you didn’t _tell_ me that, did you,” Zayn says, his voice strained. “You -- I came home and you withheld that from me, like. D'you think I'd _ever_ 've gone to Louis if I'd known?”

Harry sits down, too, teary-eyed. Zayn immediately goes over to him and kneels next to him, wrapping his arms around him and kissing his head.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Hey, I love you… alright?”

Harry sniffles and sets his jaw. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t do this. When's the last time I did this?”

“When you threw your shoe at me head,” Zayn says, kissing his temple.

Harry laughs tearily.

“I mean, it was a high-quality shoe, at least. I appreciated that. Wasn’t like, a smelly trainer.”

He laughs harder.

“Babe, I ran to Louis ‘cos you fought with Mia, is all, and I wanted his opinion.”

“That isn’t the only reason,” Harry says. He sounds weary. “Don’t lie, please. It’s alright if you say something I won’t like, just don’t lie.”

Zayn sighs heavily. “Alright, yeah, me an’ him… we’ve got a certain…” he inhales. “A bond, I s’pose? But that took so long, and it was like -- the reason we have it is ‘cos we fought so much and said such horrible things to each other and I was my worst possible self to him, and we came out of it, somehow. I dunno how. Because we had to work together to be co-parents, I s’pose. But now we don’t much of anythin’ to fight about, now, ‘cept Mia once in a while. My life ain’t with him, it’s with you. So of course I fight with you, ‘cos I’ve actually built somethin’ with you, somethin’ worth fighting over and worth getting upset over. And then I can go to him, and better‘n anyone else he can tell me like, hey, you’re being an arsehole for these reasons.”

“You should know by now,” Harry says softly. “You ought to know when you’re being an arsehole, and why. You don’t need Louis to be your conscience. He’s like your security blanket, he’s your little escape from me.”

“No, no, no, no…”

“It’s fine to have a relief valve, Zayn, I get it, I have ones of my own,” Harry says, glancing up at him. “I never wanted us to be one of those couples that’s like… got no privacy or mystery or time apart. Especially with kids in the mix. I don’t want to get bored.”

Zayn nods, his heart thumping anxiously. “But…?”

“But…” Harry sighs. “God, this is such a ninny conversation… I hate feeling like this, I hate being this hormonal. Can you just be more sensitive? We’re having a baby soon. _I’m_ having a baby.” He pauses, as if for effect. “I’m having _your_ baby.”

“Yeah, I’d twigged,” Zayn says, grinning. He reaches out and tries to feel their son under Harry’s many layers of jumpers.

“As much as I love Mia… and I do… when I’m miserable, kneeling on the floor and puking my brains out, I don’t care much about her employment situation. Just want my partner to take care of me.”

Zayn strokes his hair. “I get that, mate. I’m sorry.”

“It's alright.”

Zayn looks down. “Sorry I wasn’t there, when you got back from the doctor. It fuckin’ kills me that you were alone.”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” Harry says in his low voice. “I ought to’ve. That’s on me, totally. I just… sometimes I need to process shit by myself. But that isn’t always fair to you, to push you away while I do.”

“It just makes me feel weird,” Zayn admits. “Who would you tell besides me?”

“No one,” Harry says gently. “That’s the point. I’ve got, like…” he points to his head. “A whole world up here. Sometimes I get lost in it. I’m sorry.”

“No call from the doctor’s office, nothin’.” Zayn hadn’t realized he was a little upset about this, but he is. “It was _ours_ , love. It was mine too." He sucks in air. "Losing it fuckin' hurt me, too.”

Harry’s eyes grow bright with tears again.

“I just kept thinking of your face when we lost the first one,” he says hoarsely. “I know how your dad being sick upsets you, I didn’t want to make it worse. I was paralyzed. I wanted to tell you. I _wanted_ you to comfort me. I’m so used to holding everything in... I’m too good at it.”

Zayn presses his forehead against Harry’s temple and kisses him on the cheekbone. “I know.”

“And sometimes…” Harry hesitates. “Fuck, this is a hard one.”

“Tell me.”

“Just… sometimes the fact that you and Louis have Mia hurts me.” He drags in a breath, his nostrils flaring slightly. “And it always has.”

Zayn waits for him to continue, not moving a muscle.

“S’like... you’ve got this really great daughter with him, and she’s so much like you, and you sort of grew up alongside her while you raised her. And we’re in our forties, and I keep mis --”

He breaks off, pained.

“Angel,” Zayn whispers, “for Christ’s sake, d’you know how bad I always wanted a son? D’you know how long I’ve wanted to make a baby with _you?_ The bloke I love, the bloke I’ve made my life with?”

Harry has a strange expression on his face. “This is really beneath me, as far as insecurities go,” he says. “Just this… boohoo, Louis is better at having babies than I am nonsense. I’m sorry I said it, I dunno why I even _feel_ it. Societal pressures?”

“But d’you know those things I just said?”

“‘Course. It isn’t about you not being excited for the baby,” Harry says, running his hand through Zayn’s hair and then cupping his face. “You’ve been wonderful. Anyone could tell how thrilled you are… It’s this old painful shit. Realizing we’re never going to have the life I imagined, where all of this awful drama never happened, we never had that horrid summer, and we got together again in our early thirties and settled down.”

“But we wouldn’t have Cala, then,” Zayn says, gazing at him. “I wouldn’t have Mia. You know?”

Harry nods slowly. “You’re right. And that’s what I tell myself every time.”

“Things happen for a reason,” Zayn says. “We always say that in AA. I really believe it.”

It’s snowing harder, but they’re sitting under the tree, so they haven’t felt it yet. They hear footsteps coming their way and glance around to see Louis coming toward them, his arms huddled against the cold.

“Hey there,” he says, in a gentle little voice, bending over to peer at them. “Are you Christmas presents?”

“Huh?” Zayn says.

“You’re under a tree.”

Harry laughs gaily at this.

“Thought you’d appreciate that,” Louis says, winking at him. “So, boys, sorry to interrupt, but game’s actually called on account of snow. And, by the way, your daughter is properly disappointed.”

Zayn beams at the implications of this. “She is?”

“She is.”

“See, signing her up for this was a good idea after all,” Harry says, nudging Zayn. “She’s invested, now.”

“All your ideas are good,” Zayn tells him. He snorts.


	2. Chapter 2

KENSINGTON, DECEMBER 14, 2038

Mia comes over to give Cala a piano lesson while Zayn strings up Christmassy decorations all over the house, trying to lessen the lingering stodginess of it. Harry puts on the London Symphony Orchestra’s most recent Christmas album and sits on the couch comfortably watching his daughter plink away at the keys as Mia bends over the piano, coaching her with enthusiastic gestures, her necklace dangling and a glass of wine sloshing in her hand.

After an hour or so of this he gets a craving for something sweet and squirrels away in the pantry, walking around and peeking at the shelves, finally finding a bag of marshmallows and digging into them like a caveman.

Harry’s distractedly eaten half of them before he stops himself and ties off the bag.

“What’re you doing to me, baby?” he says aloud, laughing. “I don't even like marshmallows.”

There are footfalls in the kitchen and then Zayn peeps his head in, smiling.

“Hi,” he says.

Harry dusts off his hands. “Hi,” he says back.

Zayn comes over to him and backs him against a shelf, kissing him. Harry smooths his hands over Zayn’s waist. He looks very handsome in a sea green button-down; he knows his colors well.

“You taste like marshmallows,” Zayn murmurs warmly, and bites his lip.

“Guilty,” Harry says, kissing his stubbly jaw.

Zayn cups his hands to the baby, rubbing them back and forth, nuzzling at Harry’s neck as he does. Harry drops his head back against the shelves. Zayn slips his hands under Harry’s shirt and begins to massage his oversensitive nipples.

“Oh,” Harry moans. “God, wait, hold on, is the door --”

“I locked it,” Zayn assures him, kissing under his throat and rubbing him harder, slipping a knee between his legs and pressing it to his cock, which is hard and getting harder.

“God, Zayn…”

Zayn sucks hard on his collarbone, like he wants to leave a mark. Harry writhes against him and moans again.

“Don't tease me,” he gasps.

Zayn drops to his knees, looking up with glimmering dark eyes and beginning to undo his zip with nimble fingers.

“Who's teasin’?” he says throatily.

 

KENSINGTON, DECEMBER 24, 2038

Christmas Eve is a sonogram day for Harry; he was supposed to have one on New Year’s, when he’ll officially be seven months along, but he worked it out with Cora so she could close up shop and be home from the night of Christmas Eve through the first week of January.

He's being less altruistic than he seems. He wants it sooner because going very long without a scan throws him into a vortex of anxiety. Every time the baby is a little sluggish inside him, every time he feels strange, dark tendrils snake up from his gut and wrap around his heart. 

But Harry manages to push this down, most of the time. He's good at that.

They skip Louis’ forty-eighth birthday, which social media reports was a day-long booze-soaked affair that was attended by around two hundred people, most of whom seem to be work pals of Louis’ who hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to him before he had abruptly stepped down.

Zayn had been the one to suggest they not go, as they lay in bed together around noon scrolling through photos Liam’s been posting all morning.

“Let’s skive,” he’d said. “One, they’re already drinking, so, like, that ain't fun for either of us. Two, I dunno most of these people, d’you?”

“I mean… I do, actually.”

“Right, whatever. But the point stands. Also, after our, um, discussion a few weeks back… I‘m sort of feeling, like, I just want to spoil you instead. And third -- fourth? We’ll see ‘em tomorrow anyway.”

Harry likes parties, but he thinks he likes Zayn doting on him more. “Deal.”

They brought Cala along to the ob-gyn, although she was more interested in sticking her hand in the hologram than in the fact that it’s displaying her baby brother.

“Stop that,” Harry said, laughing, as Zayn guided her little hand through the beams. He knocked it off and then quietly explained to her how holograms work.

Cala was very excited to find out that the baby is the size of a cauliflower, but this became troublesome, because none of them could adequately represent how big a cauliflower is to her, and she couldn't remember off the top of her head. So after the appointment, they had to drive to the shops and find one.

“Ohh,” she’d said, as Harry held it out in front of her. “He’s that big?”

“Correct,” Harry said proudly.

“How’s he fit in your tummy?”

“He’s curled up, love,” Zayn tells her. “Like a little bunny rabbit. Remember when we went for a walk and we found those bunny rabbits in their little hole? How they was curled in on themselves?”

“So he’s sleeping?” she said, squinting.

“Sort of,” Harry said, cupping his belly low, where the baby was moving under his skin. “Sort of. He’s waiting to be born.”

“I wish he wouldn’t wait so long,” Cala said. “I want to see him.”

This had delighted the both of them.

Mia calls Zayn in the car on their drive home. “This place is a fucking madhouse already,” she says.

“Language, you’re on speaker,” Harry says, chuckling, glancing over his shoulder at Cala in her car seat. “Want to pop over to ours?”

“No, I’m afraid of what’d go down if I left here for too long. I already caught my dad’s old assistant bringing her man up into me and Oliver’s wing of the house to, um… make nookie.”

Zayn snorts. “Nookie?”

“Harry said language!”

“You couldn’t think of anythin’ slicker than nookie?”

“Give us a break, Dad, it’s two in the afternoon and I’ve already had like three glasses of champagne.”

“What’s Oliver up to?” Harry puts in.

“Oh, he’s loving this. All these older women here are flirting with him, I don’t think they realize he’s just turned sixteen?”

“Please keep an eye on that,” Zayn says, his eyes going round with alarm.

“Don’t worry, I’m keeping a lid on the entire thing, basically. Well, me and Lottie and Fiz and Daisy are. And then the rest of his siblings are wasted. And Liam _was_ helping, but he’s eight to the wind, now, so he’s just dancing with Andy.”

“That sounds about right,” Harry says.

 

*

 

They all decorate the Christmas tree together like they do every year, except Zayn makes Harry sit down halfway through, because he’s even clumsier than usual with the baby in and almost knocks the entire tree over at one point.

Cala wants to stay up for Santa, but Zayn carries her off to bed and tucks in her, telling her that he’ll only come if she goes to sleep. Harry smiles from the doorway.

Zayn wants to watch telly for a while and Harry wants to go to bed, so they part ways in the hallway with a goodnight kiss.

“Did you feed Boots?” Harry says.

Zayn grimaces. “Shit. No. Did not feed Feets.”

Harry laughs. “Feed him and wrap Louis’ gift, if you could, love.”

“I wrapped it already.”

“No, his birthday one.”

Zayn goes downstairs grumbling good-naturedly. “I’m shit at wrapping gifts,” he yells up at Harry.

“Louis won’t care,” Harry shouts back, not letting him off the hook.

He’s turned to head to their bedroom when he hears Cala’s little voice calling softly from her room. He opens her door and flicks her light back on to see her sitting up, clearly fighting sleep as best she can.

“Hi lovebug,” he says, coming in and sitting on her bed. “Don’t you want to go to sleep, so it’s Christmas sooner?”

Cala seems to be working out how to say something. Harry waits, shifting with discomfort on the bed as the baby sticks a little foot right up against his bladder.

“I wasn’t in your tummy before I was born,” she says.

Harry drags in a breath and drops his hand from his stomach. Zayn is better at discussing these things with her, he gets less upset, but Harry guesses he ought to practice.

“No, love, you weren’t. You were in your mum’s tummy.”

“I _know_ ,” Cala says, sounding frustrated and confused, like she knows but doesn’t quite understand. “Did you know her?”

Harry reaches out and squeezes her hand. ‘I never knew her, babydoll. I wish I could have met her. I didn’t know your birth dad, either.”

She gazes up at him with round dark eyes. Her eyelids keep threatening to fall, but she’s struggling valiantly to stay alert. “Tell me a story about them.”

“I dunno if I know any stories, really,” Harry says, shifting fruitlessly on the bed. “I know your dad liked to paint. Um, they both liked to write. I’ve told you before they were journalists, reporters. But they had to do it in secret. And they weren’t journalists before all the conflict started... your mum was a historian. She studied history from all over the world. I’m not sure what your dad did. I can look that up for you. I think he mostly liked to paint, and he did something else to pay the bills. You’re artistic like he is.”

“Did they have Christmases, too?”

“No, lovey, not Christmas, but they had Eid like you do.”

Cala’s eyes are closing. Harry eases her back against her pillows, brings her stuffed unicorn closer to her, and then tucks her sheets up around her chin.

“Will I ever get to meet them?” she says. Death is difficult for her to wrap her mind around. She’s still too young.

Harry is struck by a powerful throb of sadness. “No,” he whispers. “You won’t meet them. But we have loads of pictures and videos of them, and some from when you were a little baby. And when you get older, you can read the things they wrote. And it’ll feel like you know them.”

“Okay,” she whispers back.

“You’ll be proud of them,” he says softly. “They were so proud of you, lovey.”

Cala nods at him and yawns, turning her head. Her eyes fall shut; Harry reaches out and strokes her hair.

He waves his watch to turn her lights back off and sits there for a moment in the dark, feeling the baby shift inside him, thinking.

 

*

 

Louis staggers into the kitchen to fetch Liam another glass of ice water. In there, he runs into Oliver, who’s eating out of an abandoned sleeve of Oreos. The room is a wreck, but so is the entire house.

“Hey, kid,” Louis says. His voice is hoarse. “You should go to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Oliver says affably.

Louis ruffles his hair. He’s at that bleary stage of drunkenness where he’s mostly sobered up and starting to catch glimpses of tomorrow’s hangover.

Oliver smiles at him in his sweet, Liam-like way. “Hey… so Claire texted me, earlier.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I told her to fuck off. It’s over.”

Louis leans against the counter. “That why you were so fancy-free today?”

“I dunno what that means, but I guess so.”

“Good for you. I’m sorry that had to happen, but good for you.”

Oliver shrugs. “The thing that turned me was how she didn’t really care that he jumped me. She was more upset about him knowing, and if he was going to dump her.”

Louis makes a sympathetic noise. “Selfish arsehole.”

“So, w’ever. Bye. It’s not like she’s the only girl I know, right?”

Louis winces. “Dial it back a little. I get you’re hurt. Take some time to be hurt.”

“What if I want her to be jealous?” Oliver shoots back, his eyes glinting.

“That’s the unhealthy way to feel about it.”

Oliver sighs and spreads his hands over the dark countertop. “I dunno how to feel healthy about it, Dad, I feel how I feel.”

“You get to choose how to act on those emotions.”

“I guess.”

They’re quiet for a moment. They’re not too good at this. Louis is Oliver’s fun parent, the one who used to toss him in the air and push him into pools while Liam watched on nervously, the one who would jolly him out of his scraped-knee tears with gentle joking, the one who fought his battles for him behind his back, in private, so he’d never have to know.

Louis loved Oliver’s early childhood. He still looks back on it as one of the best times in his life. Everything about it seemed sunny and easy: having a baby with his husband, who he adores, having a baby who barely cried and slept like a rock, who as a kid was emotionally uncomplicated and hero-worshipped him, who was sensitive and gentle but liked sports and roughhousing.

Now that Oliver is older, chafing at the seams of young adulthood, Louis feels robbed of something. The one thing in his life that he never had to worry too hard about.

“Did I tell you about my scare, when I was your age?” he says.

Oliver shakes his head.

“Right. Um… I was sixteen. His name was Robbie, but we all called ‘im Spliffy ‘cos he’d only smoke spliffs. He was a looker, a little older than me. He’d already dropped out of school, I was plannin’ to drop out of school, so we had loads to talk about.” Louis sucks in a deep breath. “I think we got together at some party. We got to fooling around, I wasn’t payin’ much attention and, like. I dunno. We didn’t have a rubber, neither of us, just sort of let it slide. And then I was walking ‘round terrified I might be pregnant for the next month and a half.”

Oliver glances up at Louis with his dark eyes. “And what if you had been?”

“I dunno,” Louis admits. “I never -- I didn’t have any idea, at that point, that the band would happen, you know? It’s possible…”

He glances down at his hands, moving his thumb over the surface of one of his weathered palms.

“I might’ve just gone and had the baby,” he says. “It happens. Your nan had me young, too. I might’ve been stuck in Donny forever. Scraping by, relying on me mum, chasin’ down Spliffy for child support. Never would’ve lived my wildest dreams. Never would have had a tiny fraction of the things I’ve got right now.”

“You wouldn’t’ve got an abortion?”

“Oliver, I don’t _know_ ,” Louis says, a little aggrieved. “It never happened, like. I didn’t -- I always thought, yeah, of course I would, if somethin’ happened, I would. And then _somethin’_ did happen, your sister happened, and I realized I just couldn’t. It was maybe the worst possible circumstances in my life to have a baby, but I had ‘er anyway, I loved her from the word go. So, there you have it. You don’t always know what you'll do.”

Oliver nods. “I think I get what you’re saying,” he says. “Like, better not to be in that position in the first place.”

“Exactly.”

“But… you wouldn’t _have_ Mia, if you hadn’t been in that position. I can’t really square that. You wouldn’t even, like, have me, ‘cos your life would be totally different. I’d be someone else, I’d be a different sperm or whatever. What if you hadn’t even married Dad at all?”

“It’s really complicated to play that time semantics game,” Louis says with a shrug. “I dunno, I never… it is what it is, like. Look, you kids are, no exception, the best thing in my life. I can’t imagine life without you, I can’t imagine havin’ different kids, I don’t _want_ to imagine it. But I’m sure I would have loved Spliffy’s baby to death, too. I just didn’t get pregnant then, so I never met that baby, I never knew it to love it. And that’s a good thing, ‘cos my life is loads better, and by the time your sister came around I had plenty of time and money and security to have a baby, even if it wasn’t ideal on a personal level.”

Oliver nods slowly.

“You know, you never really talk to me about this sort of thing,” he says. “I feel like this is shit you talk to Mia about.”

Louis’ heart sinks.

“Maybe,” he admits. “I don’t mean anything by it. Mia’s had a tougher go of it than you, she’s got that spinny brain like me and her dad. You’re my easy kid.”

Oliver looks down. “I can’t, like... always be your easy kid,” he mutters.

“I know. I know. I don’t expect you to be. C’mere.”

He pulls him in close and holds him tight, disoriented by how tall he’s gotten, by the rangy adolescent slimness of him, how apparent his ribs are under his skin.

Oliver presses his face to Louis’ shoulder like he’s little again.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” he murmurs.

“Happy birthday to you, kid.” He draws back. “How’s sixteen felt, this past week?”

“‘Sactly like fifteen, honestly.”

“Hey, enjoy it while you can. ‘Cos in no time at all, you’ll be forty-eight. Trust me.”

 

BRADFORD, DECEMBER 25, 2038

“Hello hello!” Harry calls as he leads the way into Zayn’s parents house. Zayn lags behind, shaking the rain off his umbrella. Cala is engrossed in a game on her tablet.

Zayn puts his hand out and waggles his fingers. “Love, it's the holidays. We're with family.”

She sighs gustily, but hands it over. He rolls it up and sticks it in his back pocket.

“Thanks sweets,” he says, and ruffles her hair.

“Harry!” Trisha calls, coming out, wiping her hands. “Oh, look how big you’re getting! Happy Christmas!”

“Hi mum,” Harry says, and kisses her on both cheeks. She giggles. “Happy Christmas.”

“Hello Cala, happy Christmas,” Trisha says, kneeling to hug her. “I made thumbprint cookies for you.”

Cala’s face lights up. Trish smiles at her and straightens up, immediately rounding on Harry so she can feel his middle. Harry looks thrilled to indulge her, standing still while she presses her hands to him and coos to the baby.

“Hi, your son’s also here,” Zayn says to her with a little wave. She and Harry both laugh.

“Come in, everyone, don't loiter out here in the rain,” she says, beckoning them in. They follow her, and Zayn drops his umbrella in the brolly bucket.

“Hi, darling, happy Christmas,” Trisha says, giving Zayn a hug. He squeezes her and whispers, “How's Dad today?”

“Quite cogent, actually.”

“Good.”

She leads them into the kitchen, where all of his sisters are holding court while the food cooks. They swarm Harry when they see him, and Doniya picks Cala up in the midst of all the excitement.

“The kids are in the sitting room,” Trisha puts in.

“Yeah, you can go play with them when I get done holding you hostage,” Doniya says, laughing and playing with one of her pigtails. Cala squirms a little but doesn't protest. She likes Zayn’s sisters.

“How d’you feel?” she says to Harry.

Harry shrugs. “Good,” he demurs. “Tired, but, y’know.”

They continue to pepper him with questions. Zayn shrinks back until he's in the hallway, then turns on his heel and heads upstairs.

It's always strange for him to be in his parents’ house. He hasn't lived here since he moved out a final time at twenty-two, and that feels like a lifetime ago.

Gray winter light streams through the windows of the house, casting harsh shadows on everything. Harry’s voice fades as he reaches the top of the stairs.

His parents bedroom door is closed. Zayn draws closer and knocks.

“Yes,” his dad calls.

“Hey,” Zayn says, his hand hovering over the knob.

“Oh, good. Come in, help me with something.”

He opens the door. His dad stands, backlit, a large haloed shadow.

Yaser holds out his tie. “I can't seem to remember how to tie this,” he says.

Zayn's heart goes into his throat.

“I'll get it, Dad,” he murmurs, coming close and taking it in his hands.

He's fumbly, and he misses the first time, then has to do it again. His father observes him mutely. Zayn wonders what he's thinking. He thinks of Mia doing this for him someday, when he's feeble and frail, and his gut twists.

“Have you thought anymore about that clinical trial?” Zayn says. “The one that would help you with rememberin’ things?”

Yaser shakes his head. “I don't like to go in those chambers, I don't like that fake reality nonsense. I'm old fashioned.”

“It's not a big deal, Dad. It isn't scary once you're in, I promise. It would help.”

“You’ve got no patience to let things unfold. God has his plan, Zayn.”

Zayn sighs.

“You disagree?”

“Maybe,” Zayn mutters, thinking of how hard he turned away from God when Harry miscarried the first time, of how he still isn't fully back in his arms yet.

He gets the knot perfect on his second try, and tugs on it, securing it. “You didn't have to wear a tie.”

“I like to wear a tie,” Yaser says simply.

Zayn inhales and then hugs him, which he rarely does. His father hesitates and then hugs him back, and strokes his hair.

“I'm looking forward to meeting your son,” he says.

Zayn draws back in happy surprise. “You remember it's a boy?”

Yaser smiles bemusedly. “Yes, of course.” He extends his arm. “Take me downstairs?”

Zayn links elbows with him.

“Now, where is Yasmeen?”

“She'll pop by in a few. She was with Liam and Louis in the morning.”

“Ah,” Yaser says, as they walk down the stairs. “That arrangement never quite made sense to me.”

“It works for us,” Zayn assures him.

 

HOLMES CHAPEL, DECEMBER 25, 2038

“Mum!” Harry shouts, knocking more aggressively on the back door. “Mum! Gemma! Robin! Andrew! Anyone! I have to wee very badly!”

“I told you, you ought to have gone before we left,” Zayn tells him. “I did warn you. Learn from your dad’s mistakes, Cala.”

Cala looks up at them, befuddled.

“I _did_ go before we left!” Harry exclaims, offended. “I'm seven months pregnant, so leave me alone, you terrible man.”

“You terrible man?” Zayn repeats in puzzlement. “I spent two _hours_ rubbin’ your back last week!”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh, two whole hours!”

“Cheers, they can probably hear you down the block,” Gemma says as she walks up to the door and buzzes them in. Harry gives her a drive-by kiss on the cheek as he bolts for the loo.

“Hey, love,” Zayn says, giving her a hug. “Happy Christmas. He's a little cranky.”

“It's to be expected,” she says. “Happy Christmas, though.”

“‘E’s takin’ Tums by the handful today.”

Gemma makes a face. “Poor thing. I won’t make him eat my citrus-y pudding, then.” Her entire voice and demeanor change as she bends down to greet Cala. “Hi, pet. Happy Christmas!”

“Hi Auntie Gemma,” Cala chirps back. She likes Gemma, too, and unlike with Zayn’s sisters, the fact that there’s only one of her tends to relieve Cala’s shyness. And Gemma loves having a girl around. Zayn suspects she always wanted a daughter.

Gemma takes her hand. “Leo and Alfie are in the back, but I want to show you something first. It’s a tiny carousel I bought for the Christmas tree, it moves and everything, and instead of horses it’s got --” (she pauses for dramatic effect) “-- _unicorns!_ ”

Cala’s mouth forms an O and Gemma leads her away, smiling. Zayn heads toward the kitchen.

Harry is coming out of the toilet, having a bit of difficulty doing up his fly without being able to see it, and Andrew is lounging next to the oven watching Cornish hens bake.

“Where’s Anne at?” Zayn says. He’s always trying to take another crack at charming her; he’d like to fully thaw the ice between them sometime before his son is born.

“Upstairs, looking for ornaments with Robin,” Andrew says.

Zayn turns, but Harry stops him.

“Don’t go up there,” he says quietly. “They’re going through my dad’s stuff.”

“Oh, shit. Alright.”

“It’s the first Christmas he’s been gone, actually,” Harry says.

Andrew nods.

“Right.” Zayn sighs. “I’d forgot. I’m sorry, love.”

When Anne called with the news, Harry hadn’t told Zayn what happened; he’d put on his coat and said he was going to the shops, then left. When he wasn’t back after an hour, Zayn took Cala and went looking for him. They found him in the seasonings aisle at Tesco, a thing of cinnamon sugar in his hand, staring at the display with a few silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Zayn wiped his tears away and whispered to him, “Is it your dad?”

He had just nodded, unable to say it aloud.

Zayn slides his hand over Harry’s lower back, where his muscles are very tight. He digs a knuckle in, halfheartedly trying to ease his discomfort. Harry leans into his touch.

“So how’s the baby?” Andrew says, in a very home counties, stiff upper lip, ‘let’s stop this unpleasant death talk please’ way.

“Baby’s great,” Harry says happily. “Growth scans are fantastic. I’d love for him to come out, like, tomorrow, but he’s got some baking to do, still.”

“Are you getting married before, or after? Because I asked Gems if we’d gotten a save the date card, and she said we hadn’t.”

Harry spins his amethyst ring. “Soon,” he says evasively.

Zayn nudges him. “‘E’s been puttin’ me off for like, seven years, I don’t have my hopes up.”

“You’re the one who insists it should be before the baby comes,” Harry says, “so pardon me if I’d like a little time to think about how I’d like it to go, you know?”

“You’re pardoned,” Zayn tells him, and Harry snorts.

 

*

 

Later in the afternoon, Harry is entertaining all the kids with an impromptu sock puppet show when Anne gets up to tend to the hens; Zayn hops off the couch and follows her into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says, shutting the door behind them and leaning in the doorway as she bends over the oven. “Need help?”

“Oh, hello, Zayn. No, I’m alright.”

“I can carve those,” he says.

Anne straightens up and shrugs. “Sure. Go on, then.”

He slips on some oven mitts and pulls out the hens, setting them down to let them cool.

“So,” Zayn says softly, glancing over at her. “I think we’ll probably get married soon, here. I've finally convinced ‘im.”

She smiles. “Good. Make an honest man of him.”

“Yeah, just had to put a baby in him first.”

Anne snorts.

“I was worried it might never happen,” she says. “He’s tricky about that sort of thing, and you've... you know, had a few engagements.”

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek. “We've been together nine years,” he says tersely, inserting a meat thermometer forcefully into one of the hens.

Anne walks away from him, over to the island, where she takes a seat. “I'm sorry. I'm not picking a fight with you.”

Zayn turns and rests his arse against the counter, folding his arms. The light filtering in the window above the stove is bleakly gray and makes Anne look older, which melts his annoyance somewhat.

“I just want to make sure you’re not holding anythin’ against me that we haven’t addressed,” he says to her. “Before I marry your son, and like, before he has our baby.”

“Oh, Zayn, goodness, of course not,” she says, flapping her hand.

Zayn runs his tongue over his back molars. “You sure?”

“Well, years ago, I felt… I’ve just been protective of him,” she says quietly. “That’s all. Don’t you understand? You’re protective of your daughters, aren’t you?”

“You want to protect ‘im from his partner of nine years?”

“No, in the past, I’ve wanted to protect him from the boy who made him cry when he was in his twenties,” Anne says evenly. “But anyone could see that boy’s gone. You’re a man now, Zayn, I trust you, I have for years and years now.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course!”

“You’re not afraid of our son being like me?” he says.

“I hope he _is_ like you,” Anne says. “I hope he’s like both of you, I hope he’s sensitive and intelligent and an artist.”

“Really.”

“Really! I’m terribly sorry if you thought differently, Zayn. That makes me sad.”

“Sorry,” he says genuinely. “I just -- I felt like there’s still a little frost.”

“Oh, love, no. Maybe --” she hesitates. “I was sort of afraid for a while you didn’t _want_ to marry him, but Harry set me straight.”

“Yeah, it’s him that don’t want to! I mean, God! I’ve been trying to drag him down the aisle for _years_ , now.”

“That’s what he told me, when you finally got engaged. I think he’d said so before, I’d just never quite believed him.”

“Why?”

She smiles and spreads her hands. “My pre-conceived notions, I suppose. I’m sorry about that. I really am.”

“I don’t want to be that bloke anymore,” Zayn tells her, very seriously.

“Did you listen to me when I said you weren’t?”

“Doesn’t matter what I am, matters what other people see.”

“Oh, love. That isn’t true. It’s just the opposite.”

Zayn fiddles with his sleeve. “That’s what your son always says.”

“You ought to listen to him.”

He gives her a smile. She gets up and pulls him into a hug.

“You make him happy,” Anne whispers to him. “What more could I want?”

 

LONDON, DECEMBER 25, 2038

“Hullo hullo,” Harry calls as they enter the foyer. The house looks like it's still a little wrecked from the party; there's a beer bottle on the newel post of the staircase.

Liam appears from the hall, wearing a flour-covered apron and a Santa hat. “Hey!” he says cheerily, eyes crinkly. “Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas,” they all chorus.

Like everyone else today, Liam goes right for Harry first so he can feel his tummy. As usual, Harry stays stock-still and beams the entire time.

“Everyone’s left us, and we're just recovering from dinner,” Liam says, as he separates from Harry and hugs Zayn and then Cala. “Louis has a headache, he's still a bit…” He glances at Cala and drops his voice. “Um, _ungover-hay_ from yesterday, so we’re hanging in the den. And I made cookies. There's some leftovers, and there's a still loads of wine -- wait, oops. Never mind.”

“So sorry that we’re your boring sober guests,” Harry says, laughing, slinging an arm around him.

“Ah, well, we do our best to love you anyway.”

Zayn takes his coat off and folds it before he gives it to the little robot, so it doesn't drag on the floor this time.

In the den, Mia and Oliver have a holographic rock ‘em sock ‘em robots game up on the coffee table, and are jibing at each other when everyone walks in. Mia brightens when she sees Cala, and beckons her over.

“Cala, be my hype man,” she says, pulling her in close. “Intimidate Oliver for me.”

Cala giggles.

“Boo, don't gang up!” Oliver exclaims.

Louis is lying across a loveseat, a wet washcloth over his forehead.

“How's the reigning hangover princess of Yorkshire?” Zayn says, clapping him on the shoulder as he walks by.

“Sod off,” Louis grumbles.

“So we won't hang around too long,” Zayn says. “Just wanted to give you your gifts and say hello… it's a bit late.”

“Is it?” Louis peeks at his watch from under the washcloth. “Christ, when’d that happen?”

Liam sits down next to him, moving his feet and then bringing them into his lap. “Look how pregnant Harry is.”

Louis glances at Harry, who sits up taller and gestures proudly at himself.

“He is,” Louis affirms. “Haven't seen you lot in a mo… Didn't see you yesterday.”

“Right, you all missed the insanity,” Mia says. “Oh-ho, try to come back from that,” she says to Oliver as her character wails on his relentlessly with its fists.

“I'm not unconscious, am I? If I'm not unconscious, I'm still in the game.”

“That's the spirit,” Louis says.

“We would’ve liked to’ve come,” Zayn says, smoothing his hands over the back of the couch. “Except for the bit where we didn’t feel like going.”

Harry laughs. “I wanted to!” he says. “I like parties. It's just, you know, can't drink, et cetera…”

“I don't take offense,” Louis says with a wry smile. “The turnout was insane, you could have told me you did come and I’d believe you.”

“How was your sonogram?” Liam says.

Cala has left Mia’s side and climbs up on the other couch next to Harry. She starts braiding his hair, which is a bit past his shoulders now. He grins at her.

“Excellent,” he says happily. “Baby is healthy as anything.” He eyes Zayn. “Can you sit, love? You're hovering.”

“My back’s botherin’ me!” Zayn protests.

“Where at?”

“Lumbar again.”

“You've really got to go in and see my girl, she's wonderful.”

“Well, remind me and I'll make an appointment.”

They all fall into a peaceful quiet, as the fire roars in the hearth and they sit watching two holographic robots beat the piss out of each other.

 

BEVERLY HILLS, JANUARY 7, 2039

“Here are the nominees for best actor in a TV series drama,” says Maisie Williams.

The music the pit orchestra is playing swells dramatically. Harry reaches over under the table and grabs Zayn’s hand. His palms are sweaty.

“Jaden Smith in _The Centurion Man_ …”

There’s polite applause.

Zayn is sort of exhausted after the red carpet, being introduced again and again to people he doesn’t like, and sitting through the opening monologue under these hot lights, surrounded by drunk people when he can’t drink. But he glances over at Harry, smiling, and squeezes his hand back.

“It’s good luck for you they’ve got a Brit presenting,” he whispers.

“How is that good luck?” Harry says, as he watches the display up on stage change.

“I dunno,” Zayn admits, laughing.

“Shameik Moore in _Price_ …”

There’s much louder applause, and some whooping. A woman at their table is even applauding; she’s a director from some American television series. Since she’s turned away from them and the cameras aren’t panned their way, Zayn comically narrows his eyes at her. Harry sees this and laughs.

Shameik’s face fades into a photo of Harry’s on the monitors. Harry drops Zayn’s hand and grabs his leg, then pastes on a brilliant smile as the cameras head their way.

“Harry Styles in _Donald Campbell_ …”

The applause is deafening, this time. Harry’s only ever won once before, ages ago, and he’s never nabbed an Oscar, despite having been up for one a few times. He doesn’t really get fussed over these big awards, which Zayn thinks is sort of insane.

Harry smiles bashfully. His young costar, Zara, gestures at him with her glass of wine, sloshing it over the side.

“Tonight’s the night!” she exclaims, grinning with gleaming white veneers.

“Maybe,” Harry demurs.

“Toby Kebbell in _Eugene Onegin_ …”

“Toby’s a Brit, too,” Harry says to Zayn, winking at him. “From round my way, actually.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Nottingham, I think?”

Maisie clears her throat into the mic as she tears open the envelope, and their heads snap toward the stage. “And the Golden Globe goes to…”

Harry’s placid expression doesn’t change, but he squeezes Zayn’s thigh under the table.

“... Harry Styles, in _Donald Campbell!_ ”

The hall erupts in applause, and their table in raucous excitement. Zara rushes over and pulls him to his feet and into a hug; Harry looks a little shocked, but in a thrilled, rosy-cheeked way. Everyone from neighboring tables is turned toward them, beaming, trying to congratulate him, to get in on the excitement or into the wide camera shot that’s being aimed at them.

Zara lets him go and Harry leans down over the still-seated Zayn, embracing him and kissing him.

“Congratulations,” Zayn whispers in his ear, so proud of him his heart could burst, but a little distantly jealous all the same. “You earned it, you deserve it, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, babe,” Harry murmurs emotionally.

“We’ll have to make room on the mantle,” he says. Harry’s other Golden Globe is above the sitting room fireplace, wedged between a perfect report card of Cala’s and one of Mia’s uni graduation photos.

Harry laughs joyfully.

“Go, go, go get your little gold man,” Zayn says, swatting him on the thigh.

“Alright, alright…”

Harry makes his way to the stage, bombarded by well-wishes from tables along the way that slow him down. He stops to greet nearly everybody, giving both his director and producer a kiss. Zayn leans his elbows on the table and takes a long swig of his tonic water.

He finally climbs the stage and makes an apologetic face at Maisie for making her wait, then hugs her. She just laughs as she hands him the award.

“He looks great,” Zara says. “How far along is he?”

“Twenty-eight weeks, I think?”

“Christ, you’d better marry him fast,” she says, laughing.

Zayn grins. “Was thinkin’ we’d do it on his birthday, actually.”

“Aww, that’s sweet!”

Harry steps up to the mic. He does look great; he’s gone subtle with the suit. It’s a very dark number, with a dark navy shirt underneath, tailored to fit despite the baby. He’s gorgeous otherwise, his hair falling loosely in dark and shiny waves over his shoulders. Zayn feels lucky, looking at him up there. For a moment, he feels just fine that he’s the one down here, behind the lights, watching.

He spins his engagement ring idly on his finger.

“Sorry I was a bit slow to get up here,” Harry drawls. “I think they can put that on my gravestone...”

Everyone laughs indulgently. Zayn grins.

“First I’d like to thank Netflix, for being such an incredible creative force in the world and allowing for creators from everywhere join together, without stifling limits or compromises,” Harry says.

This sounds straightforwardly gracious, but is actually a subtle dig at several people he's worked with, including the blokes at MGM-British who passed him over for a role because of the baby. Zayn is better-versed than anyone in Harry’s few petty grudges.

“I had the best time working on this series,” Harry continues, sounding a touch emotional. “It was a complete joy to come in every day, and that’s totally down to the brilliant cast and crew… every one of you was so integral in our success, and I wish I could thank every last one of you right now, but I think the Foreign Press would never give me one of these again…”

More chuckles go up.

“Eric St. George, our absolutely brilliant director... Tanya Bowers, one of the best editors I’ve ever worked under, you could spin gold out of anythin’… Zara, you were the best on-screen daughter I could’ve asked for, thank you…”

Zara whoops.

“Thank you Mike Chambers, you and our entire writing staff made magic out of the most mundane details, I can’t thank you enough. My always supportive manager, Serena Sutherland, and agent, Chris McDunn, and of course, the Hollywood Foreign Press Association for the honor of this award, and for nominating me in the first place…”

Zayn catches Harry’s eye, and he grins.

“And of course, my wonderful fiancé, Zayn Malik,” Harry says, gazing at him. “For making every day brighter, for being the most devoted co-parent to our brilliant daughter that I could ask for. And for inspiring art out of me for as long as I've known you.”

Zayn wells up and clears his throat. He was expecting a little mention, but nothing that effusive. When Harry is this happy and he directs that laser-beam focus of his at you, it’s like taking a massive bump of coke.

There are more cheers as he leaves the stage, and some people stand to applaud him. Harry beelines for their table. Zayn gets to his feet to greet him and hugs him again, pulling him tight into his arms and kissing him on the mouth. He feels less self-conscious now, with the cameras turned away back toward the stage.

“Cosigned,” Zayn whispers. “All that stuff you just said.”

Harry laughs as they collapse into Zayn’s seat together, Harry on his lap. “Feel the baby,” he says, “quick.”

Zayn’s hands immediately go to the warm swell of his belly, where there’s distinct movement under the surface. “Hey there,” he says, a grin coming to his lips. “Hi, baby.”

“I think he’s only awake ‘cos my heart’s going so fast,” Harry says breathlessly, setting the Golden Globe on the table. “He’s usually settled down by this hour. That never gets less exciting, you know?”

Zayn smooths his hands over his stomach, and Harry takes Zayn’s hands in his, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. He kisses Zayn on the cheek. Their breathing slowly returns to normal, as the joyous shock of winning fades.

“Congratulations, Harry,” Zara says, smiling at them. “You two are so cute, you know that? I want a nice supportive man like you have.”

“I had to wait around a bit for this one,” Harry reminds her with a low chuckle. Zayn feels a twinge of sadness.

“Seems like he was worth it in the end.”

“I think so,” Harry says, stroking Zayn’s hair. “Damn, I wish Cala could have seen me win.”

“‘S’like, four in the mornin’ in the UK.”

“No, I know.”

“Should’ve left a note for me mum... if Harry wins, you’ve got to go in Cala’s room and bang some pots and pans, mum. Get her lazy arse up. Set off a Christmas cracker in her ear.”

Harry buries his face against Zayn’s neck, laughing.

Zayn’s watch dings. It's a text from Mia saying, _Ahhh exciting! tell Harry congrats!!!_

 _Aren't u asleep_ , he texts back one-handedly.

_Nah mickey took us to this crazy club and we're getting pizza now_

_Happy birthday again and don't stay out too late!_ he chides her.

_I won't!!! ur back on the 9th right?_

_back on the 9th and picking up your gift in LA tomorrow_

_is it a maserati?_ she says

_No for the 8th time it isn't a maserati_

_Boo, dad. Love you_

_Love you too, angel_

 

LOS ANGELES, JANUARY 8, 2039

It’s a wonderfully sunny winter day; light pours in the wall-length windows of the bright white studio space, hard enough to make you squint. Harry is swanning around the _Vanity Fair_ studio in an unzipped faux-fur jacket and leather pants that are hanging half off his arse as Noel, the photographer, fiddles with a light.

One of the stylists, Grecia, stops him and makes him lean down so she can reapply mascara to him.

“Zayn,” Harry calls across the room.

Zayn is lounging in a chair, legs crossed, bouncing his foot and looking at his social media. He glances up.

“You look bored, babe.”

“Not bored,” he calls. “Just, I dunno…”

Harry beckons him. He rises with a sigh and comes over; Grecia makes herself scarce.

“Do we have to do this whole bit?” Zayn whispers.

Harry’s pretty face creases, and his eyebrows knit. “What whole bit?” he says, louder.

“The long interview, the photos, all this.”

“What’s wrong with the photos?”

“It’s just sort of, putting it all out there, innit?”

Harry barks out a laugh. “I think what we’re doing is actually quite tasteful. It’s not like we’re breaking ground, here. Demi did it first. Britney did it twice.”

He holds up two fingers, to illustrate.

“Do you have to do things just because Britney Spears did them?”

“Yes, actually,” Harry informs him, moving away and collapsing into a white suede beanbag chair, crossing one long leg over the other.

Zayn sighs and puts his hands on his hips. In the background, someone puts on _Oops!... I Did It Again_ over the speakers.

“Yesss,” Harry exclaims. “Who did that?”

“Allegra!”

“I love you, Allegra.”

“I love _you,_ Harry,” she coos back to him.

Zayn arches an eyebrow at him.

“God, Zayn,” Harry says, rolling his eyes, “she’s a lesbian. Can you relax? I’m having fun. Can you have fun?”

“I’m sorry this isn’t my idea of fun.”

“If it was _you_ walking ‘round half-naked, it would be.”

“Harry, it’s just you’re pregnant,” Zayn mutters. “He’s going to look at these someday, you know.”

“Yeah,” Harry says cheekily, “and he’s going to think, fuck, my dad’s cool.”

Zayn eyes him. He does look sexy. His large eyes are tastefully done up, and he’s got an ageless rocker look to him. He wears being pregnant very well; the baby bump is a perfect round ballast in the middle of him, a parentheses on the long line of his toned figure.

Harry reaches his hand up, and Zayn pulls him to his feet. Harry comes in close to nuzzle and kiss him.

“Why is this always how you convince me of things?” Zayn murmurs, cupping Harry’s belly.

“Please... like you never use sex against me,” Harry says, and bites Zayn’s lip. A pleasant shiver goes up his spine.

Behind them, the photographer starts snapping away.

“Oops,” Harry sings along breathily, “you think I'm in love, that I'm sent from above, I'm not that innocent…”

Zayn laughs and kisses him, long and slow on the mouth. Harry slips his knee between Zayn’s thighs.

“Hello, boys!” Grecia exclaims, amused. Harry laughs against Zayn’s lips.

“Shh,” says Noel, flapping his hand at her. “This is gold. Leave them alone.”

“‘Scuse me, I’m not actually getting paid to be here,” Zayn jokes. “So please, no photos.”

Harry takes Zayn’s jaw hard in his hand and kisses him on the nose. “I’ll compensate you,” he says in his low voice, his eyes twinkling.

They dance around a little more, kissing and flirting, and then Zayn heads back behind Noel to scroll through what’s been taken so far.

“Can I use those?” Noel says to him, as he swaps out lenses. In the background, Harry slips off the jacket and peels off the leather pants, so he’s only in his Calvins.

“Go ahead,” Zayn says distractedly as he looks at them.

He and Harry have done a few shoots together in the past, but this is definitely the most comfortable they’ve ever looked; gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes, lit up with happiness, Zayn’s hands against the baby. They’ll look fantastic in black and white.

Zayn’s in the article plenty, since it’s the first-ever profile someone’s done of Harry as a family man, so he guesses one of these photos will end up in the spread somewhere.

He gives himself a moment to admire how good-looking he and Harry are, and then he returns to his seat, watching his fiancé kneel on a long cashmere pillow in the center of the floor.

Grecia hurries over to apply some more highlighter to his cheeks and fix his hair, then makes herself scarce.

“What am I doing, Noel?” Harry calls.

“Um, whatever you feel like, really. What did Britney do, since we’re talking about her?”

Harry laughs. “I think she like, cupped her tits and had a massive necklace on?”

“Well, go on and cup your tits for us, Styles.”

Harry jokingly attempts to cover all of his nipples.

“You know, you’ve kind of got a Monica Belucci thing going on, when she was our cover ages ago,” Allegra says. She pushes her assistant aside so she can come over and pop a display up on her watch for Harry. He squints at it, and nods.

She retreats back, out from under the lights, and Harry settles more comfortably onto the pillow. He smooths his hands over his belly, which has been lotioned up so his skin glows under the studio lights, then turns his head and gazes into the camera with his typical electricity.

“Ooh, yes, give me full Tarzan, with the hair and the eyes and the tats and the muscles,” Noel crows, snapping away. “Pregnant rock star Tarzan. I _love_ that.”

Harry’s gaze flickers to Zayn for a brief moment. He must have a fond look on his face, because Harry seems pleased when he glances away.

 

KENSINGTON, JANUARY 12, 2039

Harry wakes Zayn up early for sex.

“Happy birthday, old man,” he murmurs in his low voice as he's kneeling over him, mouthing at the head of his cock through his pajama pants. He must have showered already; his hair’s a little damp, and he smells really good.

Zayn lets out a soft groan of pleasure and props himself up on his elbows. “Hey… you don’t have to...”

But Harry is determined to bring him around to hardness. It doesn’t take Zayn very long at all; he was dreaming about Harry even as he laid next to him. They were somewhere tropical.

Harry wants to suck him off, but Zayn can’t stand seeing him on his knees when he’s this pregnant, even as much as he likes Harry’s full lips around his cock. He beckons Harry forward so they can lay side by side, and he fingers him open in the soft seven a.m. light. Harry moans softly and writhes against him, bearing down on his hand, fisting his fingers in Zayn’s hair.

Harry climbs atop him when he’s ready to take him, a little ungainly and tentative. They haven’t had this kind of sex in ages.

Zayn slides into him carefully, but with haste. He feels like he’s got to hurry, before the baby starts moving around or Harry gets heartburn or something.

Harry moans high in his chest and gives a long exhale. He starts riding him languorously, like he could do this for hours. Zayn notices his laurel tattoos have stretched and faded a bit; he really finds that kind of hot. Harry has allowed his beloved body to visibly change for him, for them, for the both of them, because he loves Zayn and wants to have his baby.

Harry’s lips are parted as he rocks on Zayn, a slightly glazed look in his eyes and his cheeks flushed.

He starts to say something, then stops himself.

“Go on,” Zayn urges.

“Shh,” Harry whispers.

“You don't have to -- ah -- you don't need to whisper, babe, the kid’s asleep --”

“Maybe the baby’s awake,” Harry says with a breathy laugh, rolling his hips. Zayn inhales sharply and bites down on his lip. “Maybe I don't want him to hear this.”

“He don't understand English,” Zayn protests.

Harry gazes down at him, batting his thick eyelashes.

“I love your cock,” he says throatily, riding Zayn harder, leaning back on him to get him deeper, his hands pressed to Zayn’s thighs. “I love how hard I make you...”

Zayn inhales sharply, arching back against the bed. His eyelids flutter.

Harry groans as he grinds down on Zayn more powerfully. He slips his hands off his thighs and grips the bedspread. The sight is overwhelming: their satin sheets clenched so hard in Harry’s strong, tattooed hands that his knuckles are going white.

He comes soon after, moaning with pleasure as Harry milks the last throbs of orgasm out of him just by moving his hips.

“Babe, babe,” Zayn gasps.

Harry slides off of him and collapses onto his side on the bed, looking beautiful in rosy late pregnancy, all curves and long lines and shining curly hair like a Botticelli.

He’s hard now, too, and Zayn moves in close so he can stroke him off.

Harry bites his bottom lip hard, arching his back and fucking needily into Zayn’s hand. Zayn grips him harder, leaning in to suck hard on his chest and below his collarbone. Harry moans breathily in his ear and grabs his hair.

“God, yeah,” he says, and it turns into a throaty growl at the end that makes Zayn’s spent cock throb uselessly. “Oh, yeah.”

When he comes, he comes hard, spilling all over Zayn’s forearm and sinking his fingers harder into his hair. Zayn kisses all over his face, the bow of his lips and the slant of his nose, and Harry’s eyes flutter open. He gazes at him, all half-lidded and big-pupiled, looking besotted.

“Thanks for that,” Zayn whispers.

“Thanks for getting me off,” Harry says with a grin. “Happy birthday.” He kisses him back. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Zayn collapses on the pillows next to him and snuggles up against him, pressing his face to the crook of Harry’s neck and his collarbone.

“I’m too tired to shower again,” Harry sighs.

“Take a bath.”

“Mmm, that sounds nice… standing up, though.”

“We’ll give you a minute to catch your breath.”

Harry laughs a musical little laugh. Zayn drops a tender kiss on the edge of his jaw.

 

KENSINGTON, FEBRUARY 1, 2039

“Zayn,” Harry whines from the walk-in closet.

Zayn sets his book down on the bed and takes his glasses off. “What’s up?”

“C’mere…”

Zayn heads into the walk-in, where Harry’s half-dressed in his wedding outfit under the gauzy vanity lights overhead, framed by rows and rows of shoes and clothes.

“Hey,” he chides. “I’m not supposed to see you dressed!”

Harry flaps his hand. “Forget that. Do I look stupid?”

Zayn takes him in. “No, you look fantastic. Radiant.”

Harry studies himself in the full-length mirror across from him. “Do I look very pregnant?”

“Mmm, you _are_ very pregnant, love.”

“I told you to marry me sooner,” Harry says, exasperated. “When I had the cute little bump.”

“What? You put _me_ off!”

“Well, you ought to marry me after, then! When I’ve lost the baby weight!”

“What baby weight?” Zayn says, looking him up and down. “You’ll bounce back in ten minutes, like. You’re acting crazy.”

“Listen, I'm very tired and sweaty and full of heartburn, and I'm breaking out on my hairline, but _whatever_ ,” Harry exclaims dramatically, flinging a jacket over his shoulder onto the floor behind him.

“You're always gorgeous, lovey,” Zayn insists, dodging a different jacket that sails at his face. “You're especially gorgeous right now.”

“I think I get your game, here,” Harry says, moving to search through another rack, pushing things aside like a maniac. “Marry me on my birthday and you'll never forget our anniversary.”

“‘Less I forget your birthday,” Zayn jokes. Harry straightens up and glowers at him. He cuts an intimidating figure, as tall as he always is and pregnant as he currently is.

“Hey, lighten up. It’s a happy day, innit?”

“I’ll cheer up as soon as I can stop hating every piece of clothing I own,” Harry says, moving to another rack. “Hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of clothes and it’s all a wash, somehow.”

Zayn bounces along after him. “I thought you’d decided on what you were wearin’.”

“I thought I had, too, but I think I need to go more drapey,” Harry huffs. “I didn’t think I’d be this pregnant-looking at eight months.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! I dunno! I thought... like, well… I’m lanky!”

“Aye, but you’re not fucking _Gumby_ , mate.”

“Hang on, I think I’ve got it,” Harry says, leaning on one of the pale yellow walls as he yanks his trousers off. Zayn pulls his shirt over his head for him.

“I’m just going to go Rick Owens,” he explains as he pulls a stretchy white tee on. “White shirt, but not a dress shirt, ‘cos that was _not_ working. Black jacket, black pants, black shoes. Understated jewelry. Or overstated. I haven’t decided. Depends if hair is up or down. I’ll have to consult with Lou.”

“Do I have to change?”

“No, you’re alright, aren’t you? Black suit, white tie? White pocket square? Black shoes? Unless you’ve changed up on me.”

Zayn shakes his head. “That’s still the plan.”

“Good,” Harry says, beaming as he tugs a pair of bespoke, stretchy-waisted black trousers on. “We’re going to look _very_ handsome.” He hums happily to himself.

Zayn grins at him. “Glad you’re sorted.”

“See, I told you I’d cheer up when I figured it out.” He pulls his jacket on and looks at Zayn with sparkling green eyes. “Oh, my God,” he exclaims.

“What?” Zayn says, momentarily panicked.

“I’m getting _married..._ ”

Zayn stares at him, baffled. “I know!”

“Like, today! I’m getting married!”

“I know, mate! I’m the one you’re marryin’!”

Harry laughs. “It’s just I’ve never been married before.”

“Me neither,” Zayn reminds him. “This is me third engagement, first marriage.”

Harry smiles, dimples flashing. “I forgot about that.”

“You’re like, the final bachelorette, y’know? You actually get the rose, like.”

Harry kisses him. “Why d’you say sweet things, and then keep on talking and ruin them?”

“When’ve I ever done _that?_ ”

Harry swats him gently and starts applying a Chanel lip balm. “Go get dressed.”

 

*

 

An usher takes Louis and Liam from their car in the drive to the backyard, despite their assurances that they know where they’re going.

The backyard looks gorgeous, dotted with fairy lights and electronic sky lanterns. Their trees have been artificially revived from their winter dormancy just for the occasion.

There are already dozens of people here, clustered around small white tables or talking in little groups, which explains why they had such difficulty parking.

It’s balmy for February, so Louis shrugs off his coat and hands it to the usher along with a hundred pound note for his troubles. When he’s gone, Liam laughs.

“What?”

“Nothing, just your tipping habits…”

Oliver traipses up behind them, with Niall in tow.

“Where can I get a drink?” Louis address to Niall as they head toward the gaggle of guests, treading lightly in the grass with their nice shoes.

Niall laughs. “Oh, no, poor Louis.”

“What?”

“No alcohol here. It’s a dry weddin’.”

Louis’ mouth drops open, appalled. “What?”

“Well, neither of ‘em can drink, can they?”

“Who cares about them? They’re busy gettin’ married!”

“Do you _need_ to drink?” Liam says to him. “Can we go seven hours without a drink?”

“At Zayn and Harry’s wedding?”

Liam eyes him in a certain cheeky way, like he’s about to put him on the spot. “What does that matter?” he says, his eyes twinkling.

Louis squints back at him, speechless for once. Of course he isn’t going to articulate why the wedding of Zayn to a very pregnant Harry makes him want alcohol -- not in front of Oliver, anyway.

“Alright,” he relents.

Niall beckons Louis over and they break away from Liam and Oliver, who have stopped to have a very male conversation about the mechanics of how the fairy lights were strung up in the highest parts of the trees. Liam thinks they used a cherry-picker, Oliver thinks they used drones.

Niall surreptitiously slips a flask out of his jacket pocket. “Potcheen,” he says. “Like a hundred fifty proof, it’ll knock ye right on your arse. But don’t tell anyone. ‘S’just for you an’ me. And Barb. And Ellie, 'cos I promised her some... Well, don't worry, I've got the rest of the bottle in me car.”

Louis claps him on the back. “I love you, lad.”

“Mia can have a nip, if she wants one.”

Louis laughs. “I’ll let her know when she gets here. She’s on her way, had a meeting with a headhunter.”

“Shit, yeah?”

“Yeah… still ain’t sure where to go from here, I guess.”

“She’ll get there,” Niall assures him, and takes a small drink from the flask. He makes a face. “Fuck. Alright. That really _is_ a hundred fifty proof.”

 

*

 

Mia shows up later than she means to and loiters high on the hill for a minute or so, scoping out the crowd down amongst the trees. Her dad and Harry are out and mingling amongst everyone. Zayn is freshly shaved; he looks crisply handsome and very happy. Harry, if anything, seems even happier. He’s in his earthy element, very pregnant and glowing, his eyes bright and his hair loose around his shoulders.

She’s in a chiffon number that's sort of uncomfortable. Zayn picked it out. He did right by the color and cut, which are very flattering to her, but he didn’t check to see how it would feel to wear. It’s itchy.

Heath ambles over to her. He isn’t Niall’s son by birth, but sometimes his manner reminds her of him, the way she herself sometimes has Liam-like gestures or inflections.

He hands her a joint. She smiles.

“Bad boy,” she says. “Nice one.”

“Yeah, you know what? I stole this from your fucking dad,” he says, laughing. “Louis, not Zayn. Just had it right there in his jacket pocket.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I reckon he's a bit stressed about them getting married…”

She trails off as the two of them retreat behind a little copse of trees, so they’re shielded from people walking by them up toward the catering tent, where all the food is being kept in chafing dishes.

Heath lights the joint and takes a drag, then hands it to her. She inhales deeply, wanting to get as high as possible.

“Whatever,” Mia mutters, ashing it. “He wouldn't admit it, anyway.”

Heath squints at her. He has Barbara’s snub nose, and his dad’s dark hair. “What makes you think he is?”

“Well, he's been properly jittery, fake-happy about the fact that they got pregnant.”

“Does he have feelings for Zayn, still, or something?”

“No, that’s the stupid thing. And my dad did have feelings for him at some point, like, wanted the three of us to be a family… And of course that didn’t happen. But he’s still a little possessive of Zayn? Like, he freaked out when him and Harry started dating? They're each other’s might-have-been. Like the one that got away, or whatever.”

He blows out smoke and hands the joint back to her. “Guess it’s tough to see your baby daddy get domestic with someone else. My mom wasn't happy at all when my dad started a family with Nikki, even though she dumped _him_ for Niall like a million years ago.”

“Right, exactly. Well, I’m happy for my dad and Harry,” Mia says. “I think it’s a good thing.”

Heath nods. “They’re a really good couple, yeah. Niall’s even on board, and you should have heard the shit he used to say about your dad.”

“Mmm, I can imagine. So, anyway... how’s school going?”

Heath coughs and makes an _oops_ face. “I actually dropped out again.”

“Shit, really? From the fashion program?”

“Yeah, I wasn't feeling it. like…” he shakes his head. “I don’t know. I like clothes, and like, the industry, but I don't want to be a designer, I figured out. Just wasn’t my thing. I don’t know what _is_ , honestly. I'm like…” he laughs. “Half of everyone expects me to be exactly as successful as my parents, and everyone else expects me to be a messy drugged-up failure. Like, how do you even square that shit?”

Mia nods. “I hear that. I hear that _so_ much.”

“My mom doesn’t even really care. I mean, they have Jimmy now.”

Mia grins and takes another hit. “It's nice how the younger ones take the heat off.”

Heath snorts. “What else are they good for?”

 

*

 

“Oh, Mia, you look beautiful!” Anne exclaims.

Harry glances up; he'd been mired in conversation with her, while his cousins and Zayn's cousins chat with Zayn a few feet away, near the fountain statue that's the centerpiece of their garden.

Mia is approaching him, looking sheepish in lavender chiffon. Her dark hair falls sleekly over her shoulders; tucked behind her ears.

“Aww, you do look lovely,” he says to her, motioning for her to spin. Mia smiles and complies. “Zayn did a nice job with the dress.”

Anne turns to Harry. “And darling, you and Zayn look so dashing today...”

He's very affectionate today, and brings her in for a hug. She squeezes him for a good long moment, then pulls back and examines him. “Goodness, you really are so pregnant."

“I know,” Harry says, smiling. “That a good thing, today?”

“Of course! I think it's sort of cute when pregnant people get married, long as there's no shotguns involved.”

“No shotguns tonight, Mum.”

“Well, congratulations again,” she says, beaming at him and chucking him under the chin. "I'm going to go see if Gemma has my powder..."

She heads off to their table with a wave. Mia makes a soft noise in her throat.

“Um, congratulations,” she says. “Forgot to say before.”

Harry beams at her. “Thanks, love.”

“You really do look like you're about to drop that thing any moment,” she says, in that way of hers where she has to chase a nice thing with a rough joke.

“‘That thing’?” Harry says, amused. “Your brother, you mean?”

“Oh, don’t take it personally, I still call Oliver ‘that thing’ sometimes. When’re you due, again? March fifth?”

“Nah… the tenth.”

“God, that's so soon.”

Harry glances over her shoulder, where her father is laughing raucously with Niall, Ed and a few others. Liam is chatting up some industry bloke Zayn invited who they both know, Mike or something. Harry’s friends have split away and formed their own groups.

Louis seems tipsy. Someone must have snuck alcohol in.

“Not soon enough, honestly,” he says warmly, cupping his belly where he felt the baby kick last. There's a faint movement under his hand.

He's in a constant state of discomfort now, his middle-aged pains combining with the constant twinges and aches of late pregnancy to create a cacophony of unpleasant sensation in him. Luckily he's good at tuning these things out.

Harry spots his sister winding her way through the maze of garland-laden tables and waves to her. She comes over, smiling and looking a bit wearied, presumably from wrangling her sons. “Hey, everyone. Happy birthday, Harry.”

“Thanks, love. Mum was looking for you.”

"Shit, was she?"

“We were just discussing how pregnant he is,” Mia says, indicating Harry with a jab of her thumb.

He studies her, noticing for the first time that she looks like she’s high. He knows how that looks on her, from weekends when she was a teenager and would stay with him and Zayn, go out to party and sneak home in the wee hours of the morning.

“Isn't he? What day of March are you due on again?”

“The tenth,” he and Mia chorus in unison.

“You're carrying sort of high for having a boy, aren't you?” Gemma says, examining him.

“I think it's my abdominals,” Harry explains. “If you’ve got a strong core, you carry higher. Or so it's been explained to me.”

“D’you still do yoga?” Mia says.

Harry nods. “Not too much this month,” he admits. “Just a bit of partner yoga in our birthing class.”

“I can’t imagine Dad doing yoga in public.”

“He’s actually been quite cooperative, you’d be surprised.”

“Well, I'll go find Mum,” Gemma says.

“Tell her you're both at our table!” Harry calls after her as she walks away. “Number four! Look for Trisha!”

Mia comes over and puts her hands on him, so she can feel the baby.

“Oh, there he is,” she says, smiling when he moves under her palms. “So, by the way, my dad’s a bit sloshed.”

“I noticed,” Harry says drily.

“So’s Niall. I think he snuck some Irish moonshine in or something.”

In spite of himself, Harry starts laughing. “That's alright,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, doesn’t matter. I just want everyone to have a good time today, that's all.”

Mia pats his middle. “I'd be annoyed if I were you.”

“Nah. And, um... I know you're high, by the way,” he says with a sly smile.

Mia clicks her tongue off her teeth. “Shit. Just a little, I swear.”

“Mmm.”

“Heath is, too.”

“Oi, snitch,” he says, grinning. He gets a sharp cramp and winces. Mia glances up at him in concern.

“Just Braxton Hicks,” Harry assures her.

“You sure? Please don't go into labor at your wedding.”

“I've got no plans to, I promise.”

She smiles crookedly.

“Hey,” Harry says, feeling sentimental. “I wanted to tell you… I think you worry no matter what, as a parent, but I worry about him less, knowing how well you turned out.”

Mia stares at him. Her eyes get glassy, and she blinks fast. “Really?”

“Really.”

After an overlong pause while she tries to compose herself, she hugs him. Harry squeezes her hard.

 

*

 

Before the ceremony starts, Mia makes her way back over to their table, where Niall is holding court with a highly entertaining and shakily plausible story about his worst golf game of all time, his face flushed with liquor and pleasantly illuminated by the fairy lights.

Zayn and Harry are talking to Zoe Kravitz; Liam has wandered off to chat with Mike and a few other industry people. He looks good; he's much handsomer without the work widower beard, and he's lost the bit of weight he put on over the summer.

“Lovey,” Louis says fondly to her, beckoning her close. She can hear in his voice that he's well tipsy, heading toward drunk. “C’mere.”

She comes over to him and bends down, hugging him. “Hi hi.”

“I love you so much, you know?”

“I do, Dad. I love you too.”

He kisses her on the side of the head.

“An’ then Henrik’s caddy ran me foot over, swear t’ Christ,” Niall exclaims. “Rory swears to this day it was on purpose. I think he was on the take, personally. I got, fuckin’ -- I’m Nancy Kerrigan, lads.”

Oliver is laughing, while his namesake sits next to him, working hard to stay upright.

“Tell them about the time Rachel Uchitel rang you up,” Ellie eggs him on.

“Right!” Niall says, and starts in on that, to the horror of Barbara, who looks around to make sure Jimmy isn't in earshot.

Mia noticed a glint on Louis’ wrist, hidden slightly behind his cuffs. She reaches out and pulls his sleeve down.

“Is that the watch Dad gave you when I was born?”

“Huh?” Louis says airily. “I dunno, I've got loads of watches.”

“It is!” she hisses. “You wore the push present Dad gave you to his _wedding_? God…”

Louis laughs. “Shh, shh… I told you I don't know!” But his eyes are twinkling with mischief.

The string quartet across the way has been tuning their instruments for a while; they begin playing dinner music quietly enough that it has to compete with the gentle gush of the fountain.

“This is where I get all my pettiness,” Mia tells him, stern. “Straight from you.”

He snorts and pats her on her side.

 

*

 

Harry is already tired and more than ready to start the ceremony by the time his fashionably late guests begin arriving (Nick has Fiona in tow and tells Harry with high drama, “Since you're with child and all, I’ll step in for Zayn if he tries to bolt”, which elicits some very fake laughter and a glare from Zayn himself. Then Kendall and Hailey Baldwin show up frazzled and tell Harry that although Taylor couldn't make it, she's sent them a giant chocolate fountain that two workmen are currently struggling to hoist out of a lorry).

“A chocolate fountain?” Zayn mutters when the girls leave them to go to sit down. “The fuck? Alright.”

“Don't look at me! You invited her, you're the one who's, like, still friends with her,” Harry says, amused. “I haven't spoken to her in years, actually.”

“You realize even without her, you've got five of your exes in attendance? Two of them supermodels?”

“It's not my fault you don’t get along _your_ supermodel exes,” Harry jibes, as they head away from their guests to confab with Nick, who’s performing the ceremony. "Or any of your exes, really."

Zayn’s mouth falls open in offense. “What? Not true, mate!”

“Really? Name one?”

Zayn scratches at his facial hair. “Uhh. Louis?”

Harry laughs hard at this, and Zayn slips an arm around his waist, shaking his head fondly.

“Actually, Nina told me congratulations,” he says in a soft voice. “She texted me this morning like, I’m glad you're finally happy.”

“Hmm, no thanks to her.”

“Right. But, I dunno. Nice of her to say, I guess.”

“It is nice, yeah.”

Nick glances up as they approach him, shrugging his shoulders and rocking on his heels in an attempt to ward off the growing chill in the air. “Alright there, kids. Ready? Birthday boy? Zayn?” He points to Harry’s middle. “Baby?”

Harry nods. “I think it's go time,” he says with a smile.

“Hey, Nick, polite request to keep in mind this is a weddin’ and not a roast,” Zayn says to him.

Nick winks. “Have you met me? Anyway, you get what you pay for.”

“We aren't even paying you!”

“Exactly.”

Harry laughs.

 

*

 

The ceremony takes a bit to get going; Harry ducks out right before it starts, and Nick starts in with some soft-shoe monologuing about when he and Harry dated that’s cut off quickly by a sharp look Zayn gives him. At that point he moves into ribbing the audience, pointing out that Niall and the people surrounding him are the only ones who have been somehow drinking at a dry wedding (“See, Horan, this is why we've always had such trouble with the Irish.”) Niall laughs and gives him the finger.

“So Harry’s apparently left us to go have a wee,” Nick says into the mic. “I _hate_ to gossip, but I really think he might be, you know, pregnant. Zayn?”

He holds the mic out to Zayn, who's standing next to him in front of the trellis.

Zayn laughs in spite of himself. He leans in. “Can't comment,” he says, to scattered laughter.

“I feel like this could go sideways any second,” Jay comments. “Knowing Nick.”

“I told him if he mentioned me at all I’d punch him in the cock,” Louis tells her, slurring a little.

Mia and Oliver laugh.

“I'll hold him for you,” Liam says with a grin. He's had a few nips out of Niall’s flask, as well, and he's pink in the cheeks and hanging off of Louis.

“I'll…” Niall trails off. He's the most fucked up of all of them. “I'll, uh…”

He shakes his head, having come up with nothing. Louis drunkenly claps him on the shoulder.

“Cheers,” he says.

“I'll kick him,” Niall says, gesturing broadly and grinning. “Whiles you've got him on t’ ground, yeah?”

“Perfect, Neil.”

“Don't call me Neil.”

“I love you, Neil.”

Everyone begins turning in their seats; first a few people, and then a wave that passes over all of the tables as they each look to see what their neighbors are looking at. Louis turns along with them.

Harry is walking down the hill, not holding a bouquet or anything, just himself in his suit, head held high. He cuts a striking figure. They all observe in rapt quiet as he approaches.

The quartet starts up a jazzy rendition of Mendelssohn's _Wedding March_ , and Harry laughs, his eyes sparkling as he makes his way through the tables. He’s somehow light on his feet despite how pregnant he is. He looks breathlessly happy.

Louis glances over at Zayn, who stands against the backdrop of the trellis, more handsome than he has a right to be. His eyes are full of tears; he's gazing at Harry with worshipful adoration and intense intimacy.

Louis takes another sip of his grapefruit soda, which he spiked earlier.

“It's great to see Dad this happy,” Mia whispers. She looks a bit tearful herself.

Louis smiles at her. “It is,” he agrees.

Harry reaches Zayn and comes close to him. They always seem pulled together like planets, sucked in by each other’s gravity. Harry strokes his hair back from his face, beaming at him. Zayn beams back. After a bit of wordless conversation between them, he glances over at Nick.

“Can we get this started already?” he says humorously.

“Well, _somebody_ had to take a slash,” Nick scoffs into the mic, to laughter.

Zayn brings Harry closer and settles his hands over his hips, stroking the sides of his belly, and they both turn to Nick.

Nick actually has a sweet little speech prepared, about how long he's known the both of them, how much they've changed and all that they've been through, while skillfully glossing over the more unpleasant details.

Halfway through, Lottie’s daughter Marley comes over and slips into the empty seat at their table, next to Mia.

“Hey,” she whispers to her.

Louis flaps his hand at her. He’s trying to pay attention. She rolls her eyes and flaps her hand back at him. None of his nieces and nephews take him seriously at all, although they love him dearly.

“Hey,” Mia whispers back, chuckling.

“Is anyone else bored?”

“ _Shh!_ ” Jay admonishes. “Lovey, it’s a wedding!”

“Sorry, Nan…”

Nick is wrapping up his comments. Harry takes the mic, wobbling it back and forth in his hand a bit as he thinks, and then bringing it to his mouth.

“Hullo everybody,” he says, smiling. “Thanks for coming.”

The crowd lows affectionately. His actor friends are closer to the trellis, and particularly loud. Harry grins at them as he wanders around with the mic, weaving between tables and passing by the fountain.

“I’m just going to say a few words right quick,” he says, circling back to Zayn. Nick politely steps back, so they can have center stage. “I’ve sort of scrapped the entire standard wedding script. Actually, in all honesty, we’re having one because Zayn pitched it to me as just a big party with all my favorite people, with ten minutes of serious talk toward the beginning.”

People chuckle.

“So, I had a bit I wanted to say about Zayn,” Harry says, stopping just short of him and looking at him with dear fondness in his eyes. Zayn gazes back at him, hands in his pockets, smiling. “I’ve known him forever. We, um…” he laughs. “This isn’t common knowledge, but we’re amongst friends, so whatever. We dated a bit in the band, when we were still fairly young. While we were on tour, in fact.”

 _“What?”_ Paul bellows in disbelief from one of the far tables, sending Louis, Liam and Niall and any former bodyguards in attendance into quiet hysterics. " _On_ tour? How didn't I know this?"

“We were very shady about it,” Harry says, grinning. “Lou knew.”

“I did!” she calls out. Paul wags his finger at her.

“I was absolutely in love with him,” Harry admits. “But I broke his heart, for practical reasons. Quite the pisser. All worked out in the end, I suppose.”

Zayn is smiling warmly at him.

“There was this time, though,” Harry says. “Near the end of very first tour. We were in Florida in July, it was terrible. But we could still get away with just walking around in public, back then, like real people. And Zayn went -- he left our hotel, in….” he pauses for effect. “A leather jacket, for some reason.”

More laughs.

“I don’t like this story,” Zayn puts in, leaning toward the mic. “I don’t remember what you’re talkin’ about, but I get the feeling I’m about to look stupid.”

“I can’t believe you don’t remember this! You bought me daisies.”

“Ohh, yeah, now I do.”

“It’s around forty Celsius, and he brings me these daisies,” Harry says, which makes everyone _aww_ again. Louis stops himself from rolling his eyes. Zayn never really gave him anything when they were dating, except expertly rolled joints and an unplanned pregnancy. “And they’re, y’know, half-wilted ‘cos of the heat, and Zayn’s like, dying of heatstroke. He’s still got the jacket on. So I pull him into my room and I bring him a glass of water... and he sticks the daisies in.”

Their table chuckles at this, Louis included.

“And I’m like, no, stupid, that was for you to drink. He says to me, all loopy, ‘Romance first, mate’.”

Harry pauses for the requisite _aww_ ing.

“And then I made him take a freezing cold shower, which he didn’t appreciate, but I was worried.”

Zayn is beaming, now. Harry shrugs.

“Just sort of reminds me of all the things I like about him,” he says. “It’s the little things, when you get older.”

Zayn holds his hand out for the mic, and Harry happily passes it over.

“When we adopted our daughter,” Zayn says, “who’s over there --” (he points to Anne’s table; Anne has Cala on her lap) “-- waitin’ patiently with the rings… Um, when we adopted her, it took her a while to get used to all the changes, like. But she liked Harry straight away.”

Harry smiles and mouths something to Zayn; Louis can't read his lips from here.

“And the only thing that got her to sleep was if Harry sat on the couch with her in the crook of his arm and read her Beatrix Potter books. Took hours and hours, some nights. An’ he did that, for five straight months. He’d do that and carry her off to bed, every night, tuck her in, ‘til she finally felt safe to go to bed without it. And then when she did, he told me, ‘It’s funny, but I think I’ll miss doing that.’ An’ I thought to meself… fuck. I'm so lucky. I'm so, so lucky.”

Harry looks like he's about to cry. He takes the mic back.

“Yours was better,” he says softly, with a twinge of perfectionist annoyance, which gets some laughter.

“Hey, you're welcome to go again, mate.”

Harry takes a moment to think.

“Just the small things,” he says softly. “He covers my eyes when we’re driving somewhere and he sees roadkill, because he knows if he says don't look, I’ll look. Still leaves me love notes in the kitchen the night before, if I’ve got an early meeting. Still brags about me to anybody who’ll listen.”

“A shrinking population, to be honest. Me mum, mostly.”

Trisha looks particularly amused by this.

Harry beckons Cala over. She slips off of Anne’s lap, and Anne hands her the little pillow with the rings; everyone watches as she carries them over and presents them formally to Harry.

“Thanks, lovey,” he says, ruffling her hair and slipping the bands out of their ribbon loops.

Nick pops back into view as Harry and Zayn exchange wedding bands. Cala starts to go back toward the table, but Harry pulls her close and says something to her. She smiles and stays put.

“Now for the serious bit,” Nick says, “the part I got that certificate off the Internet for…”

 

*

 

They have their first dance to the string quartet playing _Wouldn’t It Be Nice,_ which seems a little bittersweet -- considering they are older, considering they did wait so long.

They don’t look older, though, as they gracefully circle around the dance floor (Harry definitely leading Zayn, while masterfully making it look as if he isn’t). They look, through the haze of the setting sun and the glow of their happiness, eighteen again. They smile brightly at each other, whispering sweet nothings, so off in their own little world that the hundred or so people around them seem to fall away.

Couples start joining them: first Zayn’s parents, then Anne and Robin, Zayn’s sisters, Gemma and her husband. After four songs, Liam stands and extends his hand to Louis, all gentlemanly.

They dance for a while. Louis is tipsy and spinny and cheerful, and he leans heavily against Liam, letting him drag him around the dance floor, pressing kisses to the side of his face. They whisper quietly about nothing; Liam keeps his hand pressed tight to the small of Louis’ back.

Louis nuzzles into the breadth of his chest and closes his eyes, listening to other people’s conversations.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when Harry taps Liam on the shoulder and asks him to trade partners; he’s drowsily surprised as Liam walks away with Harry, laughing quietly to him about something, and Zayn takes up Louis’ hands.

“Sorry,” Zayn says drily. “Don’t think I’m as comfortable to lean on.”

“Yeah, what good are you, honestly?”

They laugh. Without someone who has an interest in leading the dance, the two of them slow way down, barely swaying back and forth.

Zayn studies him. Louis clears his throat.

“Congratulations,” he says. “It’s a really nice wedding.”

“Thanks, I think so too. A little off the cuff. Not very traditional.”

“Nothing religious all, I noticed.”

Zayn chuckles. “Right, I feel like that type of shit always takes ages… I didn’t want to put Harold through it, at eight months.”

“God, right, you’re going to have a baby so soon,” Louis murmurs. “Should’ve thrown you a bachelor party.”

“Wasted opportunities.”

“Could’ve made Liam strip.”

Zayn grins. “He’d like that, wouldn’t he.”

“I honestly think he would. I mean, not for you. But in general.”

Zayn glances up, past Louis, no longer making eye contact.

“I had this weird thought last night,” he says. “I thought of… God, it makes me cringe thinkin’ about it. But I wondered what my life’d look like if I’d married you when you got pregnant.”

Louis is taken by surprise. His throat tightens.

“Well, first things first we’d be divorced,” he says lightly.

Zayn looks amused, his eyes sparkling. “Such a pessimist.”

“You root for two troubled twenty-three year olds who couldn’t get through half a conversation without screaming at each other, and only got married ‘cos they were too stoned to use a rubber?”

“Alright, alright, we’d most likely be divorced,” Zayn allows.

“Regardless of how great our kid is.” Louis grows a little sad, and reaches up to stroke Zayn’s jaw. Zayn watches him, his amber eyes made liquid by the setting sun. “I might’ve married you, though, y’know. If you’d asked.”

Zayn swallows and glances away again. “I know.”

“I was waiting for you to ask, when I was on tour. I thought you would. I really thought you might propose.”

“I couldn’t, mate.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cos it wouldn’t’ve worked, we know that… And you didn’t love me. You weren’t in love with me.”

“I know, I know...” He pauses. “I would’ve tried to be.”

Zayn looks down, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have to try,” he says with difficulty.

“But you were in love with me,” Louis says in a little voice. He hurts, high in his chest.

Zayn nods with a strange detached serenity; like he’s agreeing that the weather is nice, or the soup is too hot.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, hearing in his voice how tipsy he is.

“Oh, Louis,” Zayn says, sounding devastated. “Don’t apologize for that, mate. Jesus.”

Louis looks up at him, his eyes glimmering. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t give you what you thought you wanted? So you were free to have what you really did?”

“Course,” Zayn says softly. “Best gift you ever gave me, not lovin’ me back.”

Louis laughs. “Who’s the pessimist, now?”

“Sorry, what am I sayin’? Best gift you ever gave me was our daughter, of course.”

Louis smiles up at him. “Right back at you,” he murmurs.

 

*

 

Harry and Liam sway together under the fairy lights, both looking over at their spouses as they cling to each other, barely moving, lost in quiet conversation.

Louis looks drunkenly, sentimentally sad, a piece of his quiff falling haphazardly across his forehead as he gazes up at Zayn. Zayn is sad in a more sober way.

For the moment, Louis is talking, and Zayn isn’t. He’s just listening, nodding at certain parts.

It doesn’t make Liam jealous or even annoyed to see them like this anymore. He hurts on their behalf, is all. He knows it's difficult for them to have this strange relationship.

Harry is watching them too, his face mostly expressionless except for how his brows are subtly furrowed.

“Wonder what they’re talking about,” Liam says.

Harry shakes his head. “I think we both know what they’re talking about,” he says, a bit wistful.

Liam clears his throat and rubs his hand over Harry’s lower back, against the softness of the tee under his jacket. “Maybe if we start making out, they’ll look over here.”

Harry laughs loudly at this, then leans in and gives Liam an affectionate kiss on the mouth. “Nice try,” he teases.

“It doesn’t bother you, though?”

“What, when they talk?” Harry shrugs. “A bit. But, um… Lately, I've been thinking of it like...” he swipes at his nose with his thumb, scratching an itch. “You know, Zayn’s got this thing he does, like once a year or so. He’ll pour a glass of whiskey or beer or something and he’ll just stare at it for like an hour. And then he pours it down the drain. And he never says a word about it.”

He’s looking over at Zayn again. Liam studies Harry’s face; the sharp line of his nose, the gentle curves of his cheekbones, his full lips.

“Why’s there liquor in your house, anyways?” he says, confused.

Harry huffs. “ _I_ like to have a drink once in a while. You’re missing the point, Liam. It’s a metaphor.”

“Sorry, sorry…”

They chuckle together.

 

*

 

Harry and Liam make them wait, when they come back over.

“We’re in the middle of a _waltz_ ,” Harry says dramatically, steering Liam so he doesn’t bump into Gia Coppola.

Zayn folds his arms and smiles at him. “Whatever you say, love.”

When the song ends and they exchange spouses again, the band notices Zayn and Harry have reunited, and they start up playing _God Only Knows._ Harry gets a misty look in his eye when it comes on. He whispers something to Zayn, who laughs and nods.

Louis watches them as he and Liam walk away and start to slow dance on the fringes of the floor, where there’s fewer people.

Louis turns away from this and glances at Liam, who’s giving him a knowing look.

“What,” Louis says, rubbing his back, smiling at him.

“Nothing…”

“D’you remember,” Louis says, taking Liam’s tie in his hand and tugging it so it’s no longer hanging crooked, “d’you remember when Sophia got married? How you freaked out?”

“Well, I mean, God,” Liam scoffs, “she tells me she’s not ready to settle down, that it isn’t me, it’s her, and she gets married not two years later? Of course that wigged me out!”

“I’m just saying, Payno.”

Liam smiles crinkly-eyed at him. “You’ll notice I’ve said nothing the entire night.”

“Aye, you’re my good boy… my sweet boy, my handsome boy...”

Liam slides his hands over Louis’ waist and buries his face in his neck, giving his arse a passing grab. Louis laughs.

“Anyway,” Liam breathes against his throat, and kisses him.

“Stop,” Louis says, not wanting him to stop at all. “Else we’ll have to sneak off.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Liam says, and gives him a gentle bite that sends pleasant tingles down his spine.

Louis wiggles in his arms. “Hang on, babe. Dance normal with me for a minute ‘fore we go, so it doesn’t look so suspicious.”

With a grand sigh, Liam straightens up and takes him by the hand and the waist again, easing back into their two-step.

“I never told you this, but I ran into Sophia and her husband once,” Louis says.

Liam’s eyebrows attempt to merge. “When?”

“When I was pretty pregnant with Oliver, actually. I was out having tea with Lottie at Claridge’s, and we’re leaving, and someone stops her, and I turned around and it was him and Sophia. And they’re hugging and chatting and then she spots me, glances me up and down and sort of… whoof. It was chilly. I felt lousy about it, even though it’d been years and years.”

Liam sighs. “It isn’t like you directly broke us up.”

“No, no. Still… Well, she and ‘im seemed happy, though.”

“That’s good.”

 

*

 

“Oh, _God_ ,” Louis moans as Liam fucks him over the counter in the luxurious cellar bathroom. “God, yeah, oh, yeah. Fuck, _fuck._ ”

“Not so loud, babe -- ohhh -- not so loud, we don’t know if anyone’s in the house --”

“OH, YEAH, GOD, YEAH, LIAM, YES, _YES_ \--”

“ _Louis!_ ”

“Don’t tell me not so loud!”

Liam slides out of Louis and drags him to the floor, pushing him flat on his back onto the fluffy bath mat over the cold linoleum floor. Louis grins at him, wide-eyed, waiting to see what he’s going to do.

He shoves three fingers in Louis’ mouth. Louis gags appreciatively on them, sucking at the pads of his fingertips, his stomach clenching hard with arousal.

“Fuck me,” he orders, his voice muffled but the intent of it fairly clear.

Liam pushes roughly back into him, shoving the two of them across the floor with his force, the bath mat sliding under Louis’ back. Louis grabs at him passionately, fisting the lapels of his jacket tightly in his hands, wanting him harder.

At some point Liam removes his fingers, and Louis starts moaning in his ear again, breathy and hiccupy. His lips are wet with his own saliva. Liam sucks at his bottom lip, biting it. Louis grips Liam hard by the arse, sinking his nails into his flesh, trying to get him as deep as possible.

“God, you still fuck me up,” Liam whispers to him in the most wonderfully throaty voice.

“Good,” Louis breathes, rocking down hard on his cock, arching his back.

 

*

 

“How’re they going to explain where this baby came from to Cala?” Niall says. “Harry said they just glossed over that bit. They’re gonna have to get into, like, some hard science.” He slurs those three words very badly. “They’re gonna have to teach her high school biology ‘fore they even get into anythin’ else.”

It’s after dinner, and while everyone else is having soft and polite conversations at the other tables, delicately eating their pears with chocolate and gold flake ganache, their table and their immediate neighbors have become an island of rowdiness. Louis keeps shifting back and forth in his seat, sore, and exchanging naughty glances with Liam, who’s in rare form tonight.

“I dunno, is she going to ask that many questions?” Oliver says. “I don’t remember wanting to know about that stuff.”

Mia laughs a tinkling, tipsy laugh. “Yes, you did! You asked me once, don’t you remember?”

Louis and Liam glance up simultaneously.

“Did I?”

“Yes, you said, I don’t understand how the baby gets in. And then you said Jamie told you how sex worked, and you told me it was people sticking their willies in each other’s belly buttons, but you didn’t get how that made a baby.”

Louis, Oli and Niall collapse against each other in drunken hysterics. The sun has gone down, and the lights in the dark trees are getting smeary in Louis’ drunk vision.

“ _Miaaa!_ ” Oliver exclaims in reproach.

Mia shrugs. “Well, you should be grateful, actually! ‘Cos I gave you some facts before I sent you on your way.”

“Wait, what did you tell him?” Liam says, his eyes twinkling.

“Nothing _graphic_ , don’t worry. I barely even remember. Apparently he’s forgotten, anyway.”

“I can’t believe Jamie thought that’s what sex was,” Oliver mutters, flicking his wrist so he can tap out a text on his forearm. “I’m putting this in the rugby chat so we can all take the piss...”

“Wait, is that _not_ what sex is?” Heath says drily. Marley has an attack of the giggles.

“We’ve been doin’ it wrong this entire time, Payno,” Louis says, playfully socking him in the shoulder.

Liam grins lasciviously, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on Louis. “Oh, I dunno about _that.._.”

Oliver shakes his head, looking horrified. “New topic,” he begs. “Literally anything else.”

 

*

 

Around ten, Harry is falling asleep on Zayn’s shoulder, although he denies it vehemently every time someone points this out.

“I’m _awake_ ,” he insists every time Gemma snaps her fingers in his face. Zayn just snorts and strokes his hair.

He perked up a little earlier, when Niall gave a very funny toast in their honor, following behind Gemma and Doniya’s much more traditional and sweet ones. 

“Harry,” he’d said, pointing at him, swaying from the influence of moonshine. “You’re t’ little brother I never had... and never wanted, actually. But I couldn’t imagine life without you. I’d be much more bored and not as well-dressed.”

He’d jibed at Zayn a little, too, but it’s clear he tempered what he said. Niall and Zayn still aren’t back on good enough turns to sling friendly barbs. Maybe someday, Harry hopes.

Cala is dozing off, too. She was thrilled to be allowed to stay up past her bedtime, but soon found out that there's a reason she has one. Anne had to stop her from falling asleep with her hair in her dessert.

Louis, Oli, Niall, Liam, Barbara and now Nick are all truly wasted at this point. Harry’s older guests, like Chris and Eric and their wives, have begun to come over, hug him, present their gifts and be on their way, but the One Direction table is still going strong.

When they were making up the guest list, Harry noticed a lot of Zayn’s picks were either people who had worked with him for twenty years or friends he’d made in the last ten.

“I s’pose when I cut out the enablers and the people who only like me when I’m up professionally, there ain't a ton of people from the past I’m hangin’ onto,” he'd said. “Except you boys.” He tickled Harry. “Can't seem to shake you four.”

It made him wonder if Louis having Mia hadn't been the lynchpin he and Zayn needed; if they'd have reunited otherwise. If they'd have come back together again any other time but in that surreal moment after acting class, when Zayn had seen Mia off to her friend’s mum’s car and then come back, hands in his pockets, watching Harry fold up chairs and said, “Need any help?”

If they hadn't gotten to talking that night and then sat on the floor and continued to for hours, so late that they almost got locked in the building, then gone to Zayn’s place and talked some more.

Harry had fled from him, avoidant, confused. He'd gone out to LA and tried to pretend his feelings hadn't resurfaced. But Zayn followed him. Tricky stubborn Zayn. He'd texted Harry to say _hi, liked our chat the other day, maybe we could have another soon?_ And then in a whirlwind series of events, Harry was having his brains fucked out on the living room floor of his Malibu house, Zayn's mouth on his throat and his hand on Harry’s cock and his own cock inside him. They haven't been broken up a single day since.

When they got back together it had been eighteen years since they last had tearful teenaged goodbye sex in a hotel, still sweaty from the show they'd just played, and yet Harry could feel that memory close to his skin, beating in his chest. Nine years since he’d stood shaking in his kitchen, screaming for Zayn to get out.

He still doesn't know if there was another, better way they could have gotten here. He finds, today, that doesn't need to know. He's happy.

 

*

 

“Hey,” Niall slurs around midnight. He’s leaning on Louis in the middle of the dance floor while they watch their kids do the Electric Slide.

“Yeah.”

“We ought t’ have him play _Act My Age_.”

“Oh, no, Niall,” Louis exclaims, laughing tipsily. “That's just depressin’! We _are_ old, our kids _do_ think we're jokes!”

“That's the point, lad.”

He claps Louis on the shoulder and goes off to talk to Liam, who set up as DJ after the string quartet packed up and went home.

Liam pulls his headphones off and leans over to Niall as he whispers in his ear. A grin spreads on his face, and he nods.

 

*

 

Harry’s mostly asleep, laying on Zayn with his face in the crook of his neck, when the opening of the song loudly kicks on. He jerks and then sits bolt upright. Zayn watches him in amusement.

“Hey!” he shouts to Niall, Louis and Liam, who are in the middle of the dance floor, frantically waving him over.

Zayn stands and helps him to his feet. He goes gaily over to them, Zayn following on his heels.

At the edge of the dance floor, Zayn stops. He watches as they pull Harry into their little circle, all laughing and grinning under the fairy lights, swaying together, singing along. Everyone around them stops to appreciatively observe this and record videos for posterity. Niall starts up a half-arsed little Irish jig, to great amusement.

Mia leans on Heath, grinning at them.

“Are you really dancing to your own music, right now?” she calls.

“You don’t get it!” Louis yells back.

“She don’t get it!” Niall echoes like he’s Louis’ hype man, shaking his head.

Harry leans in and whispers something to Liam, who whispers something back. He’s got one arm wrapped very tightly around Harry, protecting him from being jostled as Louis and Niall cavort around drunkenly.

Mia approaches Zayn, hitching up her dress so she doesn't step on it. She sidles up next to him, and he wraps an arm around her.

“I like that dress,” he says. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks, Dad," she says, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“Didn't do so bad picking something out for you, did I?”

“It's really pretty... it's a little itchy,” she admits.

“Shh,” he says, nudging her. “Let me think I did good.”

“You did do good!”

They watch as the boys collapse into a sloppy, tight-knit huddle for the _na na na’_ s.

Mia glances at him, her light eyes studying his face. Zayn shifts, uncomfortable, able to guess at what she's probably thinking. He has a sudden urge to retreat back into the dark.

“Why don't you join them?”

Zayn shakes his head and clears his throat a little. “It's their thing.”

“It's your thing too. Hello?” She points upward; Zayn takes a moment to realize that his voice of twenty-three years ago is in the air right now.

“Not this,” he says, shaking his head. “‘S hard to explain.”

“You don't have to, Dad. Just thought I’d ask.”

He nods.

Harry looks deliriously happy, spilling over with joy. Toward the end of the song, he glances up at Zayn and beams at him, mouthing, “I love you.”

Zayn mouths it back.

Niall finishes off his jig right as the song ends, theatrically whipping his tie off and tossing it to Lottie, who grins at him and pockets it. Harry whoops for this. He's still leaning off Liam, who's holding a drunk Louis steady on his feet with his other arm.

Louis says something to Liam that makes Harry laugh; Liam just grins and leans in, nuzzling their noses together and then kissing him.

Niall comes over to Harry and takes him away from Liam, guiding him back over to Zayn.

“Will ye take your husband to bed?” Niall slurs, gently pushing them together. “He's like to overexert himself and have your baby right on t’ dance floor.”

“That isn't how it works,” Harry protests, but he gladly clings to Zayn. Zayn strokes his lower back. He does look worn out.

“Bedtime, babe,” he says. “These kids all know the way home.”

“Noo…”

“It's only all the lifers that's left now,” Niall says.

Zayn looks around at the tables and the dance floor and sees he's right. His and Harry’s respective childhood friends, Zayn’s sisters, both their cousins, Lottie, Lou, Stefan, the boys, and people Harry’s been working with since the beginning of his acting career. Even the olds have packed it in and gone home, except Anne, who put Cala to bed and is now up in the house, puttering around with Gemma and Robin, looking to see if they've missed anything in their baby preparations.

Harry insists on saying goodbye to everyone, of course. One Direction pulls him into another group hug, because Niall yells, “We’re finally all married!” and Louis shouts, “Married!” with childlike glee, then they all have to hug simultaneously. After a moment, Liam pulls Zayn in, and he laughs genuinely and squeezes them tight.

 

*

 

Louis’ watch rings in the car; he sleepily shakes it to send the call to his little earpiece. “‘Lo?”

“Oh, good, I finally caught you,” says Simon.

“Shit,” Louis says, sitting up. Liam blearily looks over at him. They're alone; the kids went back with Louis’ family to stay the night.

“Simon,” Louis mouths, and then aloud he says, “Sorry I've been hard to reach.”

“That's alright. I assumed you were enjoying the time off.”

“I have been, absolutely.”

“How was the wedding?”

“Really, really lovely.”

“Good to hear. I just wanted to say congratulations on turning your company loose. I think you've done what you set out to do, you did a splendid job of it, and you knew exactly when to let go and move on. I look forward to your next chapter.”

Louis stills, genuinely touched. He finds himself growing a little emotional.

“About that… us boys, we've been talking about reuniting,” he says softly. “One last time.”

“What, the four of you?”

“The five of us, actually.”

Simon laughs. “Wouldn't that be something!”

“Would be, wouldn't it?”

“What would that entail?”

“We honestly have no idea, yet.”

“Well, whatever it is. I look forward to it.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

“Thank _you_ , Louis. I'm proud of you, of all you’ve done.”

Louis says goodbye before he gets choked up.

“I dunno why I was dodging that call,” he says. “We've gotten on well for years now. I had no reason to expect he'd scold me.”

Liam strokes his hair. “Maybe it's hard for you to admit it's really over.”

“Maybe.”

They settle against each other.

“That was a really nice wedding,” Liam says happily. He taps the styrofoam box on the seat next to him. “And Harry sent us off with a _really_ big piece of cake, bless him.”

“You'll have to hide it from Oliver.”

“Was thinking we’d eat it all tonight, actually.”

“Smart.”

 

*

 

Once they get back in, Harry lies down on the sitting room carpet, spread out like a starfish.

“Haz,” Zayn complains. “How’m I going to get you up, now? It’s going to be an entire production.”

“I’ll help,” Gemma says. “I’ll drive the forklift.”

“Hey!” Harry grouses at her, slapping at her calf as she walks by. “You’re rotten! And my back feels really good, so you can all sod off. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“On our wedding night, you’ll sleep on the floor?”

“What d’you care? You aren’t getting any tonight, anyway.”

Zayn makes a face of offense.

“Wow, he’s a firecracker,” Gemma says, sounding impressed.

“He’s been like that lately.”

“I’m in touch with my inner goddess,” Harry says, looking up at them as they hover over him. “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother...”

Anne comes back in, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Why is my son on the floor?”

“My back!”

“His back,” Gemma helpfully adds.

Zayn settles down on the floor next to him, sliding a hand over his belly. They smile at each other.

“We’re married,” Zayn says to him.

“We’re married,” Harry says dreamily.

Robin comes into the sitting room. “Are we all lying on the floor now?” he says.

Zayn leans over and kisses Harry’s stomach through his thin white tee, then blows some raspberries on him. Harry throws his head back in laughter, slapping his arm. “Stop, stop, I’m tickly.”

“Well if you two are going to get weird, we’ll be on our way,” Gemma says with a grin.

“God forbid married people touch each other,” Harry huffs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never touched Drew in my life. I dunno where those kids came from.”

“Where are they, by the way?” Harry says, glancing up at her.

“He took them home ages ago.”

“Did they have fun?”

“Yeah, I think everyone had fun. Good food, lots of dancing, short, funny ceremony, what’s not to like?”

Harry smiles, pleased.

“The dancing is not to like,” Zayn says, and Harry boos him.

“I think we should go home and get some sleep, actually,” Anne says, bending over Harry to stroke his forehead and kiss him goodbye. “Please you get some sleep too, lovey.”

“I will, mum.”

They shower the two of them in congratulations on their way out. As soon as the door shuts, Harry has eyes only for Zayn, gazing up at him warmly, his dark hair fanned out on the white carpet under him.

Zayn runs his fingers over the curve of his middle, smiling at him. “You’re really gorgeous, you know?”

“ _You’re_ gorgeous.”

“We’re just the beautiful people, I suppose.”

“It’s our cross to bear.”

They chuckle. Harry inhales and looks up at him, glowing with love.

“I’m so happy to be married to you, honestly,” he says softly. “If I’d have known it'd feel this nice, I’d have done it ages ago.”

Zayn grins at him. “I told you, you silly goose.”

“I couldn't take you at your word, you'd never been married before!”

“Thank God it's you,” Zayn says. He cups his palm to Harry’s belly. “Was always supposed to be you, like.”

Harry’s smiles, flashing his teeth. He looks ethereal in the low light. “Feel how my heart is going, right now,” he whispers, pulling Zayn’s hand to his chest.

Zayn feels. It's a rapid little drumbeat under his sternum, insistent and passionate.

“You still do that to me…”

Zayn leans over and kisses him deeply. They draw apart after a moment, gazing cross-eyed at each other.

“Happy birthday, angel,” Zayn says.

The baby takes this moment to jab Harry so hard that Zayn sees the movement stand out against his skin. Harry winces.

“Wanna go to bed?” Zayn says, getting to his feet.

Harry nods. Zayn takes his arms and pulls him into a sitting position, then brings over a footstool so Harry can lean on it. Together, they awkwardly lever him up.

Harry strips out of his suit the second he gets in the room and collapses into bed, curling up against his body pillow. Zayn snuggles up behind him, moving his hair aside and kissing the back of his neck.

“You sure you don't want to fool around just a bit?” he says after a few minutes. “Just to honor the occasion?”

Harry doesn't respond. Zayn thinks he's ignoring him on purpose, until he lets out a soft snore.

 

KENSINGTON, FEBRUARY 20, 2039

Louis spends a good bit of Harry’s baby shower hiding out in the kitchen. Liam couldn't get out of attending the launch party for his friend Mike’s streaming service, and Niall’s flight was delayed. So is only buffer is Mia, who got roped into helping plan it.

There isn't anything wrong with the shower on the face of it, he just still isn't entirely comfortable watching Zayn dote on a pregnant Harry. He hovers over him like he's bound by an invisible tether, all fussy and lovey and married, and Louis is struck by guilt that he had withheld this experience from Zayn and jealousy that he never got to have this with him.

“Did you have a baby shower for me?” Mia says to him, when she comes in to refill the crisps, reading his mind as she sometimes does. “You did with Oliver.”

“Don't say the word baby,” Louis tells her. “You're supposed to put money in the UNICEF can when you do.”

“There's already like fifty thou in there, so don't tattle on me.”

“I can spot you a tenner.”

She laughs and pours the crisps. “It's fine. So did you have a shower for me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, kid, I dunno. Does this seem like my type of thing to you? Lottie planned the one for Oliver, I didn't want to say no thank you. Plus, with you, it was a weird time…”

Mia eyes him. “People didn't know you were with Liam, did they?”

Louis sighs. “Aye, just close friends and family did.”

Out in the sitting room, a cheer goes up.

“Oh, the piñata must’ve broken,” Mia says, sounding disappointed. “I wanted to be the one that broke it.”

“What's in there?”

“Little babies made of marzipan.”

He laughs hard at this. “The fuck?”

“I know. That was Shauna, not me. She had loads of terrible ideas. So did Hailey and Kendall. Gemma and I did our best to keep a lid on them.”

Mia sits and slides the bowl of crisps over to Louis, who takes a handful.

“I guess you're right that Liam was part of it,” Louis says. “I dunno. The whole thing’s a blur, now. I just remember wanting to hide away in private ‘til you came, just be left alone by everyone.”

“That's funny, Harry’s being the opposite. I mean, with his friends, at least.”

“Harry’s a bit of a weirdo,” Louis pronounces, then pushes the crisps back to her.

Zayn appears in the doorway, smiling at them. “Oi, you're missin’ the marzipan babies.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Louis says.

Zayn comes over behind Mia and starts absentmindedly braiding her hair. “So… how d’you feel about having to share my genes with someone else?”

“I think it's great, why should I suffer alone?”

He laughs.

“It does feel weird that he'll be twenty-three years younger than me,” she admits.

“Welcome to the club,” Louis says, laughing. “You can be our treasurer.”

“Sorry, Yas,” Zayn says. “Think of it this way, you got me young years. I can't chase after this one and toss ‘im in the air.”

“I don't remember you tossing me in the air.”

“I'm talking figuratively.”

“You can do boy stuff with him,” she says. “Armpit farts, writing your name in the snow.”

“Right, ‘cos you know how much I'm into shit like that.”

He and Louis exchange a smile.

“Sons are fun,” Louis says. “In a sort of different way.”

“It's a new adventure, right?” Zayn says. “Like everythin’, really.”

Louis has noticed that he's become more and more full of platitudes like this the longer he's been in AA.

Harry wanders in and leans on the doorway, one hand pressed to his lower back, looking cheerfully exhausted. “So… whose idea was marzipan babies?”

“Shauna,” Mia says.

“Figures. Bless her.”

“How are you?” Louis says to him.

He hasn't been able to talk to Harry since he got here; he's been constantly surrounded by gaggles of people fussing over him. He's draped in a sash that says #2ANDAHALFWEEKS; he still looks great, to Louis’ annoyance. He hasn't gained an ounce in his face, hips or arse.

It’s obvious the baby has dropped, by this point. He seems overall very close to the end.

Harry shrugs. “Can't complain.”

“You can't?”

“I mean, I sort of liked being pregnant... and he’ll be out soon, right?” 

“The last two weeks feel like ten years,” Louis says. “And then his first ten years feel like two weeks.”

Zayn finishes braiding Mia’s hair. “Want me to tie this off?”

She nods and hands him a hair elastic off her wrist.

“Where's Harry gone to?” someone shouts from the sitting room. “Oi! Bring that baby back here, love!”

Harry grimaces.

“I thought you were having fun!” Mia exclaims, having turned to him.

“I am, I am,” Harry assures her. “You all did a lovely job, thank you. It's just they're all drinking, and it's gotten very loud in there, and I've got fog brain and’ve forgotten the rules to half the games we’re playing, and I hate marzipan, is all.”

“We can kick ‘em all out,” Zayn offers.

“Noo, let them have fun,” Harry says, pressing a hand to his belly all maternal.

“Fuck their fun.”

“That's a great philosophy, Dad,” Mia says with a laugh.

Louis glances at his watch. “I might head out soon, actually.”

“Oh, don't go,” Harry says sadly. “I've hardly seen you…”

“Aw, Haz, I'll see you when the baby’s born. Look, keep entertainin’ your friends, here, I just wanted to pop by and say hello.” He hesitates and adds hopefully, “Wasn't Niall supposed to come?”

“He tried, he got snowed in in Dublin. Alright, alright. Go on. And tell Liam we missed him.”

“I will. He sends his regrets.”

Louis says goodbye to Zayn and Mia and then pulls Harry into a hug, whispering in his ear, “If you've got any questions or worries when you're, you know, havin’ this kid at home here, ring me, alright?”

“You'll be my first call,” Harry whispers back.

“I mean, ring the hospital first if it's serious. Then me straight after.”

“Will do,” Harry says, patting his back. “Thanks, Louis...”

“Course,” Louis says, glancing up and smiling at him. “Enjoy your sleep while you can still get some.”

“You kiddin’?” Zayn says. “Even _I_ haven't slept in weeks. He's getting up every half hour to piss and elbowin’ me black and blue all night and taking up the entire --”

Harry glowers at him.

“I’m being supportive!” Zayn exclaims.

Mia snorts.

“I’m not _elbowing you black and blue_ \--”

Zayn tugs his shirt up and shows them all a fading bruise on his side. “In your sleep, you did this!”

Harry looks quite surprised. “Shit, I’m sorry... You’re free to sleep somewhere else, you know.”

“No, I like to sleep next to you.”

“Don’t give me lip, then. You can put some pillows between us or something.”

Louis slips out while they’re lightly bickering. He waves goodbye to Gemma and Cala (who’s wearing a paper crown with BIG SIS on it) and heads into the crisp February day, glad his childbearing years are well behind him.

 

KENSINGTON, MARCH 1, 2039

Zayn watches as Harry steps out of the shower, squeezing water from his hair. He looks lovely in an ethereal, seventies sort of way. It helps that their bathroom is patterned after that era, with funky wall decals and hazy vanity lighting.

“Hey,” he says, holding out a towel for him.

Harry gives him a smile and takes it, patting down his face. “I can get comfortable for like, ten seconds in there,” he says, nudging Zayn on the hip so he’ll make his way back to the bedroom. “The hot water quiets him down a bit. Then I get out and it’s a circus all over again.”

“‘S’good, isn’t it? Sort of?” Zayn says, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry nods. “I like knowing he’s alright in there.”

“Our little Malteser.”

“Right, well, he hasn’t been the size of a Malteser for about eight months now,” Harry intones, sitting on the edge of the bed and very aggressively toweling off his hair. “Our little, um… he’s rather the size of a baby, now, isn’t he?”

Zayn laughs. “Our little, um, baby.”

“Baby Styles-Malik.”

“Malik-Styles.”

“You can come out now,” Harry says aloud to his stomach as he gets under the covers. “Any time, now. You’re done cooking. I’ve cooked you thoroughly and then some.”

Zayn experiences a stab of anxiety as he lifts the sheets to crawl in and curl up next to Harry. He strokes his arm, trailing his finger over the tattoos on his bicep. Harry glances over at him.

“Is it weird to be scared?” he murmurs. “I’ve done this before...”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t scared,” Harry assures him. “I’m scared out of my head.”

“Really?”

“God, yeah! Do I not seem it?”

“You never do,” Zayn tells him. “‘Specially now. You seem serene, like. Cranky, but serene.”

Harry chuckles softly and looks up at the ceiling, his eyes glinting in the soft dark. “I’m terrified,” he says quietly. “But more excited than anything.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, but Zayn can always tell when he’s getting ready to talk again, and he always waits.

“I just keep thinking about the person he’ll be,” he says. “There’s so many -- it’s incredible, you know? Like when we adopted Cala, we sort of… we knew what she looked like, we knew her personality to some extent… this baby is such a total question mark.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, reaching a hand out for the swell of his stomach, feeling the ghostly movements underneath his taut skin. “Properly cool. Just as cool the second time around, I’ve got to say.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, glancing warmly at him.

“Cooler, maybe,” Zayn murmurs. “‘Cos, I dunno… we’re in love, we’re married, we’re already a family… and we’re older. I’ve got me head on straight. We had a few, um… bumps in the road, getting here. All that. I can appreciate it better, this time. I’m feelin’ it deeper, more, like… philosophical. We made a life together. Best feeling in the world.”

Harry laces their fingers together and brings Zayn’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I just got a little shiver,” he says. “A good one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I like when you talk all romantic...”

Zayn leans over and kisses his belly. Harry grins.

 

LONDON, MARCH 1, 2039

Oliver stops in the sitting room doorway and watches the three of them for a moment as they sit on the floor, slathering fancy cheese on crackers, passing around a bottle of wine and bantering.

“Are you all just, like, having a sleepover?” he says, finally.

“Sort of,” Liam admits.

“That’s definitely what we’re doing,” Louis says. “Give us a break, lad, I'm unemployed.”

Oliver laughs. “Are you putting a film on?”

“As soon as we decide what to watch.”

“Can I join?”

“Course!” Niall exclaims, pulling a cushion off the couch onto the floor for him and patting it.

Oliver sits down. He’s all banged up from rugby; Louis hates seeing the bruises and scrapes he gets, though they don’t seem to bother him. Liam used to fuss over him something terrible. He’s better about it now, but he’s still constantly leaving arnica gel in Oliver’s medicine cabinet.

“When’s this baby supposed to come?” Oliver says, digging in the bag of crisps.

“Late next week,” Louis says. “But you never know. Your sister was a week early.”

“Knowin’ Harry, I feel like he’ll decide when it happens,” Niall says. “Just will it into happening.”

Louis makes a hmm-ing noise and pours himself more wine. Oliver reaches his hand out, and Louis almost passes him the bottle before he remembers he’s sixteen and shoots him a look.

“Can’t blame me for trying!”

“You can have a _bit_ ,” Louis mutters, pouring him more than half a glass and handing it to him.

“That's a bit?” Liam exclaims.

“Well, I dunno. He’s sixteen now, it's alright.”

“Terrible parenting,” Liam says, laughing.

“It is,” Niall agrees. “Ought to give him more. Louis, you made a face about the baby thing.”

“Did I?”

“You did,” Liam confirms.

“I just think it’s not going to go how Harry planned it,” Louis says. “Not exactly, anyway. And he’s going to be in more pain than he thinks, doin’ it without drugs. You can’t meditate yourself out of that kind of pain.”

“How bad it is?” Oliver says, sipping his wine and looking at Louis with a sort of revolted curiosity.

“Remember when Jamie tore his Achilles, how he just screamed an’ screamed ‘til he passed out?”

“Yeah.”

“Worse.”

“Damn.”

“It was pretty bad,” Liam says. “From what I remember. You clawed my forearm up something awful.”

“Sorry, love.”

Liam smiles indulgently at him.

“Why would you _want_ to do that?” Oliver says. “I don’t get it. Just avoid the pain if you can, right?”

Louis shrugs and gestures. “I mean, that’s why I had them slice you out of me, but who knows.”

“Ew, Dad, alright.”

“Hey, you can kill Macbeth,” Niall tells him with drunken sincerity.

“Can I?” Oliver says, amused. “We haven’t done Macbeth yet in school. That’s the end of this term.”

“I thought you had Hamlet next,” Liam says.

“Nah, year twelve’s Hamlet.”

“Ah, lads, we missed Hamlet,” Niall says, with a shake of his head. “That’s what you get, when you’re drafted into a boyband.”

“Pressed into service,” Louis says. “In the trenches.”

Liam laughs so hard he hiccups. “On the front lines…”

“Fightin’ in the battle of Dunkirk,” Louis jokes.

Liam leans over with his head between his knees, choking on mixed laughter and hiccups.

 

KENSINGTON, MARCH 9, 2039

March ninth feels like any other evening. Zayn is the one to get Cala ready for bed; she’s fussy and short with him the entire time. He knows it’s because she misses Harry, who’s been sleepy and distracted, so he tells her a very meandering bedtime story that he himself nearly falls asleep in the middle of.

He and Harry don’t even talk much when they climb into bed together, only about an hour or so after Cala’s bedtime, each exhausted. They sleep back to back like dogs, pressed to the comforting warmth of the other.

Zayn isn’t sure why he wakes, when he does. He blinks with eyes itchy from sleep, thinking from the milky light and his confusion that it’s the wee hours of the morning, but it isn’t. It’s only twelve-thirty.

Harry is sitting up in bed. His hand is pressed to starkly round curve of the baby, and his face is set in concentration, his eyebrows knit.

Zayn stares at him in the darkness, blinking hard to bring him into focus. The air is thick around them. It feels to him like it’s buzzing with energy.

They remain quiet for a moment. Zayn wonders if, even in his sleep, he sensed something -- Harry simply sitting up has never been enough to wake him, before. He waits for his husband to give voice to the something.

“I think I’m going into labor,” Harry says very softly.

Zayn’s heart stutters and jerks in his chest. He sits up fast. _“What?”_

Harry laughs, his teeth flashing in the dark. “Don’t worry, I’m not quite there yet,” he murmurs.

Zayn stares at him, trying to make eye contact with him, but he’s looking dreamily into space.

“I was going to say something to you ‘round like eight, but I wasn’t sure of it,” he says. “Now I am. My back hurts. And it feels different than the Braxton Hicks. I can’t explain it… I just feel it. It’s strange.”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing yet,” Harry says, finally glancing up at him. “Can you just hold me? And rub my back?”

“Babe, of course,” Zayn says, relieved to have instructions.

Harry settles down on his side and Zayn cuddles back up next to him, strung out on excitement and adrenaline but cozy in the blue dark of their marital bed. He digs his fingers hard into the tight muscles of Harry’s back, and Harry sighs in contentment.

“I might even doze through them, while they’re gearing up,” he murmurs. “Before they get worse. Might as well, right?”

“Right, get some sleep while you still can. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, in a small voice. “I’m really going to need you for this.”

“I’ll be right here the entire time. Not a second away from your side, alright?”

“I mean, you’re perfectly welcome to go and wee, and things like that.”

“I’ll piss my trousers.”

Harry laughs. “Right, please don’t.”

“I’ll put a catheter in, like.”

Harry laughs harder, and then his breath catches and he goes quiet, tensing.

Zayn pauses rubbing and kisses his spine. “Is the pain bad?”

“Not really,” Harry assures him. “Not yet.”

“Alright. Keep me posted.” Zayn resumes massaging him; Harry lets out a soft groan of appreciation and leans into his hands. “You're right on time, aren't you then?”

“What d’you mean?... Ohh. Shit, you're right. He did come right on his due date, didn't he?”

“Doesn't mean you'll have him tomorrow, necessarily,” Zayn says. His eyelids are growing heavy. His hands are tired already, though he refuses to quit rubbing Harry, wanting to bring him some comfort.

“Don't say that,” Harry whispers. “I don't want this to drag on forever...”

 

*

 

They have a very bizarre, sleepless night. They come in and out of catlike dozing together as Harry’s discomfort swells and crests, every new point of waking feeling like a new day, Zayn half-asleep at some points and still mired in his dreaming even as he parts Harry’s hair back from his sweaty neck and murmurs quiet reassurances to him. Around three, Harry whispers to him that it's real now, that he's well and truly in labor, and Zayn’s stomach clenches with terror and powerful excitement.

Harry is peaceful for most of the night, breathing through his pain, but by six it becomes clear to Zayn that he's now trying to put on a brave face.

“Love,” he says hoarsely. “What should we be doin’, here?”

Harry shifts on the bed, giving a soft mewl of discomfort. “Nothing,” he insists, for what must be the tenth time. “It's not -- they aren't getting much closer, I'm not in that much more pain. I'm just…”

He lies back against the bed, spread-eagled. His shirt has risen up to reveal the laurels in their utmost stretched state, two blurred and distorted ferns against his changed hips.

“I'm really uncomfortable. That's all.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing, you've been wonderful. Keep being wonderful.”

Zayn leans over Harry on the bed, kissing him on the cheeks and face. Harry grabs him around the back of the head and smiles at him.

“I just don't like seeing you hurting, is all.”

“Maybe you ought to skip out on the birth, then,” Harry says drily.

“Don't joke,” Zayn chides. “I missed Mia, an’ it's like, one of the great regrets of me life. I want to be here with you, in this. I wanna help.”

“You _are_ helping,” Harry tells him, in a gentle voice. He reaches up and strokes his face. “It's alright, Zayn. Just having you next to me helps.”

Zayn leans down and kisses over his shoulder and collarbones. Harry slides his hand into Zayn’s hair and runs his thumb up and down over his neck, then inhales sharply and gives a febrile little tremble. Zayn aches sympathetically.

“Want to go downstairs?” he says.

Harry nods. “I’d like to sit up,” he says. “Maybe put on a film? I dunno.”

Zayn helps him downstairs and builds him a pillow throne, then brings him some cereal that he picks at while they watch BBC Breakfast. It’s cloudy but bright out, one of those mild March mornings. Zayn is antsy and quiet, jiggling his leg and glancing over at Harry every few minutes.

“You know,” Harry says, glancing at him in amusement, “he’s not just going to fly out of me the second you’re not looking.”

“I dunno!” Zayn exclaims. “I get a call from Louis, he says he’s in labor, bam, kid’s out within the hour!”

“If he’s out that fast, then great,” Harry says. “Then I have the rest of the day to rest.”

Zayn makes a concerted attempt to relax. “I s’pose you’re right. I mean, you’re doin’ it at home, anyway. It’s just hard not to think of this sort of thing as a medical emergency.”

Harry reaches over and strokes his thigh. “Can you bring me an ice pop?”

Zayn gets up and goes into the kitchen. He hears little feet on the stairs, and then Cala appears in the doorway in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes, clutching one of of the many stuffed animals she sleeps with.

“Hi love,” he says. “Good morning... You’re up early.”

“I heard you talking.”

“Ah, sorry about that.”

She sits down at the breakfast nook table and looks up at him with large eyes; he starts fixing her a bowl of cereal.

“So,” Zayn says, clearing his throat. “Um, your dad and I think the baby might be coming today.”

“Really?” Cala says, visibly brightening with excitement.

“Really. So if we’re a bit distracted, and he’s a bit cranky, that’s why. But I’m going to ring our families in a minute here so someone can sit with you while, you know. While the main event’s goin’ down.”

“How does the baby get out?”

Zayn sets her cereal in front of her and then circles back to the freezer. “Uhh…”

“How’s it get in, in the first place?”

“Uh…”

“My friend Jane says not everyone has to go to a science doctor. Some people just make babies all by themselves.”

“Uhh,” Zayn says, fetching the ice pops. “I’ll, um -- I’ll get back to you on that.”

She squints at him. “Don’t you know?”

“Yes, I know how to make a baby, love.” He holds up a finger. “I’ll be back, alright?”

Zayn delivers Harry the popsicle. Harry looks at it queasily.

“You wanted one!”

“I did, I’m sorry, but now I don’t.”

Zayn shrugs. “I’ll eat it,” he says.

 

*

 

Harry calls the doula around noon. He’s been pacing for about an hour, unable to remain sitting, unable to get comfortable. Zayn and Cala sit on the couch, watching him with curiosity as he gestures emphatically and talks in a level, calm voice that’s beginning to show a bit of strain.

“No, that hasn’t happened yet,” he says, and there’s a pause. “No, I’m sure I’d have noticed. Can’t you come over? No, I don’t -- I just think I’d feel better if you did.”

“The fuck are we payin’ her for?” Zayn says, or rather barks. “Are you or are you not in labor? Tell her to get her arse over here!”

“ _Zaaayn_!” Harry exclaims, covering his watch with his hand.

“What?”

Harry gestures toward Cala, who’s looking between them apprehensively.

“Sorry, love,” he says to her.

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

“But, yeah, please just come by, Helene,” Harry says tersely into his wrist. “Alright, thank you. See you soon.”

He hangs up. Zayn inhales.

“She's got, like, a midwife she goes ‘round with, right?”

“Right, the midwife comes later,” Harry says. “When I’m very close. She leaves right after, and Helene stays on.”

“What if she misses it?”

“What, the baby coming? Then the world ends, because no one’s ever had a baby without a midwife before. No, Helene delivers him, if that happens.”

“She delivered babies before?”

Harry has one hand pressed to his forehead and the other to his back. “Yes. I need to lay down,” he says.

Zayn immediately makes room on the couch and brings him over.

“I don't want you to think I'm not taking this seriously,” Harry murmurs as Zayn fluffs his pillows.

He's flushed in the cheeks, and his hair is curling harder over his ears from sweat. He looks younger than his years. Zayn kisses him on the cheek.

“I know, babe,” he whispers.

“I've read dozens of books, all my friends recommended me this doula…”

“I'm just --”

Zayn cuts himself off, clears his throat and asks Cala if she wants to go play videogames in the den. She of course says yes, so sets her up so she'll be occupied for a while, tucking headphones over her little ears. She doesn't need to think they don't have this under control, or know that he's panicking.

Zayn returns to Harry, who is clearly in pain but starts again pretending not to be as soon as his husband reappears. Zayn comes over and kneels next to him.

“It's alright if you want to go to the hospital,” he whispers, resting his elbows on the couch cushion.

“Noo, no,” Harry insists. His eyes are gleaming with determination. “No, I can do this, I can.”

“Harry…”

Harry glances at him. “It just hurts more than I thought,” he says hesitantly. “They can't really prepare you for it.”

“How far apart are they?”

“Like twenty minutes. But it's -- there's this sort of littler pain in between them.”

Zayn strokes his hair. “I'm sorry.”

Harry gives a breathy, hiccupy laugh. “It's alright. I want -- I just really want to meet him.”

“Me too…”

They fall quiet. Zayn continues petting his hair.

“Should I start letting people know?” he says. “Friends, and family, and everyone?”

Harry nods. “I can call some people…”

“No, rest.”

“But it helps to have something to do, to take my mind off it.”

“Look at the telly, then.”

Zayn sits next to him on the couch and scrolls through his and Harry’s contact lists, notifying anyone important. Harry lies next to him with a blanket over his legs like he's sick, half-engrossed in a morning cooking show where they're making omelettes.

Once in a while he has a contraction. He's stoic about it, but Zayn can tell by how his entire face shutters and his body tenses up. By two o’clock, they don't seem to be getting any closer together in timing, but the intensity is growing bad enough that at one point Harry goes completely white and dry heaves. Zayn rubs his back, trying not to worry.

Helene shows up at two fifteen with a basket full of essential oils, her graying hair sort of crazy from March wind.

“How is he?” she says shortly as she steps past Zayn into the house.

“I dunno,” Zayn says crossly, following her. “I'm not a doctor.”

Harry is pacing in the sitting room again. She stops him and brings him close, looking into his eyes and taking his vitals.

“You look peaky,” she says. “How’re you feeling?”

Harry glances at Zayn over her shoulder. “Um, I’m at about a six, pain-wise.”

“Just a six?”

“Maybe a seven.”

“He's very stoic,” Zayn interjects.

“I've been doing my breathing,” Harry mumbles.

“How far dilated are you?”

“I dunno,” Harry deadpans, “haven't been down there with my hand mirror lately.”

“How long between contractions?”

“Seventeen minutes, on average,” Harry replies. He's been timing and marking them religiously.

“Hmm,” says Helene. “Okay.”

Zayn is backing out of the room, feeling squeamish. “I'm going to call the boys,” he says. “I tried them earlier, but I think they were at Oliver’s rugby match.”

Helene is now rubbing lavender oil on a bemused Harry’s chest and neck.

“Alright,” Harry calls after him. “Ask them to pick up cigars…”

 

SURREY, MARCH 10, 2039

“Incoming call from Zayn,” says the smooth female voice of their car as they crunch over the gravel of the rugby pitch parking lot.

They’ve left Oliver, who had expected to lose this playoff match and planned to head home with them when it was over.  His team pulled a win out of their arses, so he’s been tapped to organize the victory lunch. Louis and Liam left him to it, but they stopped and watched fondly from the sideline for a moment as Oliver had gathered everyone up, basking in parental pride over his leaderliness.

“Oh shit,” Louis says. “Do we think this is it?”

“Right on the due date?” Liam says. “Nah. I wouldn't take that bet.”

“We should’ve run a pool,” Niall says from the backseat, where he's sleepily sagged against the door with his hat over his face.

“I don't need to lose any more betting money to Nick Grimshaw,” Louis says. He turns the music down, and Liam accepts the call and puts it on speaker.

“Hey,” Zayn says, his voice filling the car. He sounds tired. “So, the baby’s coming --”

The three of them cheer loudly; Niall leans forward to whoop at the speakers.

“-- and, um, I’m not sure when it's going to actually happen, so I'll keep everyone updated. Nothing’s really ‘appening so far.”

“When'd he go into labor?” Louis says.

“He started feeling it ‘round midnight last night, I think he started gettin’ actual contractions at, like, three maybe.”

Louis squints. “And he hasn't progressed at all?”

“Louis, I dunno, I’m not a doctor.” Zayn’s weary voice crackles over the line at him.

“Well, I know, mate, but…”

“Sometimes it takes a while,” Niall puts in.

“Has his water broken?” Liam asks.

“Ew,” Niall mouths.

“No, not yet. Nothing's happened yet.”

“That'd drive me crazy,” Louis says. “I’d be runnin’ to the hospital, like.”

“Harry’s a bit more patient than that,” Liam says.

Louis gives him the finger.

“Well, he is!”

“I dunno,” Zayn says again, and they hear him yawn. “The doula just got here.”

“Where's the midwife?”

“She ain't comin’ ‘til it's go time, apparently.”

“That makes me nervous,” Louis mutters.

“Hey, you and me both, mate.”

“I'm sure it's fine,” Liam puts in. “Harry knows what he's doing.”

“Anyway,” Zayn says. “If you lot could buy cigars --”

“Already did,” Niall calls.

“Brilliant.”

“Text me updates,” Louis says.

“Got you.”

They ring off with him. Louis drums his fingers on the dash.

“It's just -- I dunno,” he says. “Maybe I'm nervous ‘cos he had a sort of complicated pregnancy…”

“Did he?” Liam says, glancing over at him.

“Losing a twin that late? Sort of complicating, yeah.”

Niall and Liam look back at him with the placidity of the uninitiated and uterusless. Louis sighs.

“I just have a bad feeling,” he admits. “I can't explain it. An intuition thing.”

“He'll stay in touch with us,” Liam says, but his brow is knit in concern.

Niall glances between them.

Louis nods. His fingers twitch for a cigarette.

 

*

 

Mia doesn't get out of her job interview in West London until three. As she walks outside, blinking in the midday haze, she finds she has several missed calls and dozens of texts, including one from her grandmother asking her to please call with info.

Alarmed, she calls Louis, who chirps “Baby’s coming!” in her ear.

“Oh, thank God,” she says, waving her watch to unlock her car as she approaches it. “I thought something was wrong.”

“Nah, just baby time. How'd it go?”

“Um, alright. I dunno.” She shrugs. “I’d work directly under the artistic director, the bloke who interviewed me… he's a little intense, so I can't tell if I got it. They're smaller, but they do a lot of cool projects. They run a camp for deaf kids in the summer and put on all sign-language productions…”

“Sick,” Louis says. “That's really cool. I can teach you how to sign, if you like.”

“If I get it! Don't jinx me! So…” she gets into her car, clearing her throat. “Baby’s on his way?”

“Aye, though I'm not sure how it's going. Harry is being his hippie self, and Zayn is an anxious wreck.”

“Poor Dad.”

“Harry should go to the hospital, if you ask me,” Louis mutters. “He's not a spring chicken.”

“Not _twenty-four_...”

“Shut it. But yes, he's not twenty-four. It takes a bit longer when you're older. You came right out, you were rather impatient.”

Mia sits back in her seat as her car rolls onto the highway, fumbling for her sunglasses in the glove box. A car in front of her has the vanity plate SCRUM. She thinks of Oliver; she hates when she has to miss his games. “God, am I older now than Dad was when I was born?”

“Hmm… Shit, you are, actually. ‘Cos his birthday’s straight after yours. Yours is right between ours, I always thought that was funny.”

"Right, we're all Capricorns. Aunt Lottie's always pointing that out."

Louis laughs.

“So, is Harry, like, okay?” she says.

“Yeah, yeah! He's just not progressing very much, and he's been in labor for about twelve hours. If I were him, I'd go in, get an epidural. But, y’know, I ain't him. Where are you right now?”

“On the road,” she says, idly glancing at her social feed on her watch. Sasha's posted loads of photos with her new boyfriend. Mia's happy for her, but her heart twinges a bit. She misses being half of an us.

“Alright, come over to ours,” Louis says. “We’re just here playing drinking games, waiting for Zayn to call again. Niall's been showing us photos from Jimmy’s year five graduation.”

“Sounds thrilling,” she says, laughing.

“Right, bless him, he took about eight thousand and only half of them are in focus.”

 

KESINGTON, MARCH 10, 2039

Anne calls at seven. “How’s it going?”

“No updates, sorry,” Zayn murmurs. He’s spooning Harry in bed, keeping a heating pad pressed between them, rubbing his scalp for him the way he likes.

“Nothing new?”

“He’s still at five centimetres.”

“Is that my mum?” Harry says blearily. “Can I talk to her?”

Zayn shakes his watch at Harry’s, tossing the call over to him.

“Hi mum,” he says.

Helene had been against them lying down together. She had tried to insist poor Harry go on yet another walk around the neighborhood, but he had protested this and said rather pathetically that he just wants to lie down and be held. This was all Zayn needed to become powerfully protective of him, pull him upstairs and crawl into bed with him. Helene has been banished to the downstairs, where Gemma is making dinner for Cala.

“Harry, maybe it’s time you consider having some help with this,” Anne says over speaker.

“Noo, no, it’s still too early…”

“Love, how long can you do this? Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I slept a little,” Harry says softly. “I had catnaps today. I’m not tired.”

He’s lying. He is tired, and in a lot of pain, and horrendously uncomfortable. Zayn can tell all of these things just at a glance, but he won’t admit to any of them.

He briefly during a contraction about an hour ago, when he clung to Zayn, reeking of lavender, and exhaled in a ragged voice that he couldn’t do it, it was too much, he was done, he just wanted the baby out of him. As soon as it ended, though, he dismissed this Harry, saying it was a moment of weakness and he didn’t really feel that way.

“Alright,” Anne says, sounding apprehensive. “Let us know if anything changes.”

“I will…”

They hang up and Zayn kisses down Harry’s back, over the individual bumps of his spine. He’s sweated through his shirt for the third time today.

“Babe,” he says. “Please. Let’s put the hospital on the table, at least.”

Harry is quiet for a long moment.

“It’s on the table. It’s been on the table.”

Zayn sags with relief. “Alright. Good.”

“There’s no good reason I can’t do this,” Harry says fiercely. “I’m fine with waiting a bit longer. Helene says failure to progress is really just failure to wait.”

“With all due respect to Helene, she ain’t a fuckin’ doctor! Have you considered he’s too big?”

“He probably isn’t.” Harry hesitates. “Probably.”

“‘Cos that’s what happened to Louis, Oliver was too big, he couldn’t be born naturally.”

“Well, like, Louis’ pelvis is about as wide as my hand.”

Zayn exhales.

“I've considered all of this,” Harry says in his low, slow voice, lower and slower than usual, like dripping molasses. “I know. Alright?”

“Alright,” Zayn murmurs, resting his forehead against Harry’s sweaty back. 

*

 

Louis downs an entire beer in a minute, sits with it for a moment, then tells Mia, Liam and Niall that they have to go over there and drag Harry to the hospital.

“Good luck,” Niall says amiably.

“I’m not fuckin’ around,” Louis says. He gestures in the low light of the kitchen. “It’s been eighteen hours. There might be something wrong.”

“I’m with you,” Mia says, setting her own beer down. “Let’s do it. Let’s bust in there and knock some sense into him.”

“Okay, please,” Liam says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and letting out a soft laugh. “Let’s not do violence to Harry when he’s in labor, alright?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Louis declares.

Liam sighs in his long-suffering way.

They say goodbye to Oliver (“Don’t bring any girls home while we’re out,” Louis instructs him, “and get your homework done”, to which he mockingly salutes) and pile into the car, buzzing with the excitement of being on a mission.

They pull up to Zayn’s house on the long arcing Victoria Street, dotted with its many similar posh white houses, and gather on the front step in the blue dark of evening, arguing over who should say what. Gemma answers the door bemusedly.

“Well, this is a nice surprise, boys,” she says.

“We're here to save Harry,” Niall says drunkenly.

Her eyebrows knit. “From what, exactly?”

“His own stubbornness,” Louis tells her.

She laughs. “You're here to drag him to the hospital, I take it?”

“We don't want to _drag_ anyone,” Liam assures her. “Louis just wants to take a crack at convincing him to go.”

“I'm very convincing,” he says, and winks at her.

“Riiight… well, you're welcome to come in…”

Mia finds Cala immediately and sits down next to her, distracting her by chatting her up about footie.

“Where’s the doula?” Niall says, looking around.

“Oh, that terrifying woman?” says Gemma, glancing up from filing her nails. “I sent her home, she wasn't helping at all. Kept talking about aromatherapy.”

Louis wanders upstairs. He heads for the bedroom he knows they sleep in and knocks gently. There's no answer; for a moment, he's alone in the quiet of the hallway. No one followed him up here. He hears everyone's soft chatter from downstairs, though he can't quite make out what they're saying.

“Come in,” Zayn calls.

Louis does. They're spooning in bed; it's the first thing he notices. Zayn's holding Harry very tenderly. Harry looks a wreck, sweating and pale and shaking, his face drawn in pain.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Can I talk to Harold?”

“What d’you need to talk to me about?” Harry says, slowly sitting up. Zayn sits up with him, still holding him, like he's afraid to let go.

“Just want to see how you're doing.”

“When'd you get here?” Harry says. His voice is hoarse. He looks up at Louis with bloodshot eyes.

“A minute ago.”

“I'll go get you some more water,” Zayn whispers, sliding off the bed and coming around the edge.

Harry watches him, his brow knit. “Is this an intervention?” he says, as his husband walks away.

“No, love,” Zayn whispers over his shoulder.

The door shuts behind him. Louis pulls a chair over to the bed and perches in backwards.

“Why haven't you gone to the hospital?” he says frankly. “You've been in labor for what, eighteen hours now?”

Harry thinks about it and nods.

“So… c’mon, Harold.”

“I've had progress in the last hour,” Harry murmurs. “Made it to seven inches, and my water broke.”

“Right, but I’ve just got off the phone with me mum, you remember me mum’s profession?”

“Of course.”

“And _she_ says you need to deliver this baby in the next two hours for it not to be prolonged labor. So, unless you can dilate another three and have a baby all in two hours, this is officially hinky, ‘specially considerin’ your age and the fact that you had a complication earlier on. Stop being a fuckin’ hippie and get your arse in an ambulance, because you're scaring your husband, you're scaring your daughter and mine, and you're scarin’ me, honestly!”

Tears begin rolling down Harry’s cheeks, which is not the reaction Louis expected. He gets into bed with him, kneading his back and stroking his hair.

“What's wrong, mate?”

“It's all wrong,” Harry says, wiping at his face. “This isn't how it was supposed to go.”

“I know, I know…”

“You don't,” Harry says fiercely. “You don't get why I didn't want this. You've never had a miscarriage, have you?”

“No,” Louis admits.

“You've never gone to the hospital after, and had those people strap you down, awake, and scrape the rest of your dead baby out of you. And hand you a fucking tissue afterwards and ask you to please get yourself together so you can be on your way and free up the operating room for them.”

Louis presses his forehead to Harry’s back, stunned by the power of his anger and grief.

“Harry,” he says, his voice boyish and small.

“I'm just terrified something's going to be wrong,” Harry says very quietly, and he leans back against Louis as Louis pets him and fusses over him. “I'm scared... I don't want to go in there. If I go in there, it's like I'm admitting something _is_ wrong.”

“Something might go wrong if you don't go in,” Louis murmurs in his ear. “Maybe he's got the cord around his neck. Maybe he's breech. You don't know.”

“I just had a scan, he wasn't breech…”

“I don't know, Haz. I’m just guessing. What if you hurt the baby or yourself trying to do this at home? Or by waiting? You'd never forgive yourself, I know you.”

“Stop,” Harry whispers. “Don't threaten me like I'm a kid. I'm a grown man.”

“A grown man would let me call nine nine nine for him.”

Harry goes quiet for a moment.

“Alright,” he says, clearly beaten down. “Alright. Go ahead.”

Louis rings them immediately. Harry has another contraction while he’s talking to dispatch, and lies down with his head in Louis’ lap, crying out for Zayn piteously. Louis’ heart aches for him; he squeezes Harry’s shoulder and rubs his back.

“They'll be here in a few,” Louis says, tapping his watch to buzz Zayn’s so he'll know to come back up. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Harry says, limp and joyless. All of the fight has gone out of him. Louis would feel properly terrible, if he didn't think he was doing the right thing.

There are footsteps up the stairs and down the hall. Zayn comes back in and beelines for Harry, kneeling onto the bed and taking him back into his arms. Harry lolls his head against his chest, his eyes closed, clinging to his shirt with his wedding band shining on his finger.

Louis watches them, feeling out of place and voyeuristic. Zayn murmurs some inside joke of theirs to Harry to try to jolly him, and Harry laughs breathily and murmurs something back.

“I'll be downstairs,” Louis mouths to Zayn, climbing off the bed and backing toward the door.

Zayn nods at him.

“Thank you,” he mouths back.

“Anytime,” Louis says aloud, and walks away.

 

*

 

Downstairs, everyone's piled onto the couch, looking grim. They all start when Louis walks in the room. Mia has Cala on her lap and is stroking her hair.

“Called nine nine nine,” Louis says. “They're on their way.”

“Thank God,” Liam says.

Cala looks at him beseechingly. “Is Daddy okay?”

“Yes, love,” he assures her, coming over to all of them, still a bit foggy-headed from drinking. “He'll be fine, we’re all just going to go to the hospital so this baby can get born.”

“He's willing to go?” Gemma says, cocking an eyebrow. “What went down, up there?”

Louis shrugs. “A bit of tough love. That's all.”

“We could've driven him over,” Niall says.

“This way, they can check him out before he gets there, take ‘im through the famous people entrance, all that…”

Mia pats the couch next to her. Louis comes over and sits.

A minute goes by with no one talking; they all take the time to check their texts and emails. Niall's leg is jiggling nervously. Liam chews on his bottom lip.

Harry and Zayn come downstairs, Zayn with his arm around Harry, steering him. They all turn and look at him, each doing a bad job at trying not to seem overly concerned. Harry points at Gemma.

“Tell Mum and Robin and everybody to meet us at the hospital?” he says, his voice ragged. Zayn starts rubbing his shoulders like he's a prize fighter.

“Will do,” Gemma says, getting up. “Are we following the ambulance? Who's in my car? Am I picking up Zayn’s folks?”

“Nah, they'll be by later,” Zayn says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s back. “Longer drive for them.”

“How are you feelin’, lad?” Niall asks.

“Absolutely fantastic,” Harry says with a wry smile. “Um, I’ve been better, but I’m alright…”

“I'll drive Mims, Niall and Louis,” Liam says, standing as well. “Since we came together… Um, I'm sorry, I'm blocking you in, Gemma --"

“No, you're fine, Liam, that's their car, I parked in the street.”

“Good, good. So, should I pick anything up on our way?”

“Wait, who's the kid riding with?” Mia says, stroking Cala’s hair. Cala is observing all the excitement in curiosity.

“She can come with me,” Gemma says.

“Aren't you pickin’ up Andrew and the boys?” Zayn says.

Niall, who had gone to fetch Harry his jacket, returns with it and hands it to Zayn. He takes it with a thank you and puts it on Harry, who looks to be using most of his energy to remain standing.

“No, it's gotten too late, they've got school tomorrow,” Gemma says, her hands on her hips.

“Shit, Cala’s got school tomorrow, too,” Zayn says, rubbing his eyes. “Today's Sunday. I forgot about school.”

“We’ll call her out,” Harry mutters.

“Really?” Cala says in excitement.

“Just this one time.”

There's a knock at the door.

“EMTs,” a woman’s voice calls. “Someone rang for an ambulance?”

Harry shrugs the jacket more snugly over his shoulders. “I want Louis in the ambulance with me,” he says.

Louis points to himself. “Me?”

“No, Louis Walsh,” Zayn says. “Who else?”

Louis gives him the finger.

“Should I pick up anything on the way?” Liam repeats, looking agitated by the fact that he hasn't been given a task to complete.

“EMTs here!” the woman repeats. “Are we alright in there?”

“Shit,” Zayn says, and goes to get the door. “Sorry, sorry,” he says to her. “We’re discombobulated, like.”

“No worries,” she says, coming in. A bloke behind her drags one of those boards they strap people onto. “I'm Emmy, this is Mike. Where's Harry?”

Harry feebly raises his hand.

“Can you walk?”

“Sort of,” he says. “Hang on… Liam, d’you have the cigars?”

Liam grimaces. “No.”

“Fuck,” Niall says, laughing. “The _one_ thing we were in charge of.”

“Right, Mia, take Cala and go with Gemma and Andrew. Me and him’ll run back and grab them,” Liam says. “We’ll meet you all over there. Gemma, you've got my number?”

“Yep! I'll call you when we're there.”

Emmy motions Harry toward her. She wraps an arm around his lower back and guides him toward the street, with Zayn anxiously dogging their heels like a border collie and everyone else following in a row like ducklings.

Louis jogs over to Stefan, who's sitting in his car in the street, playing solitaire on the dash display. 

"Hey," he says. "So hospital is a go."

Stefan gives him a thumbs up. "Zayn already texted me. I've got boys dispatched to the hospital already, we're settin' up a staging area on the first floor, we have a plan to get Harry in without commotion, and we're locking down his wing of the maternity ward. Just waiting for you lot to leave so I can follow you there."

"Brilliant."

Louis runs back over, nearly getting left behind in all the commotion, but he scrambles up into the ambulance, torquing his knee in a way he knows is going to bother him tomorrow. Outside, the sun is nearly down over London, dusk and streetlights illuminating the long road behind them.

Mike pulls the doors shut. Louis sits in the little jump seat at the back and turns around to Harry, who’s on the gurney, one hand against his middle.

“Nobody put me in front of any reflective surfaces, please,” he says. If it were possible for a voice to have pallor, his would. “I don't think I've ever sweated this much in my life.”

Zayn chuckles. Emmy straps a blood pressure cuff on him and starts taking his vitals.

“So what’s the complaint?” she says. “Dispatch told me it was a home birth gone dodgy, prolonged labor?”

“Right,” Zayn answers for him. Emmy glances up at him.

“How many hours?”

“Nineteen, now,” Louis puts in.

She glances between them. “Sorry -- _you're_ the father, correct?” she says, indicating Zayn.

“Yeah, sorry, I'm just a friend,” Louis says. “Definitely not the father.”

Harry smiles in a wearily amused way.

“We've got a kid together, though,” Zayn says, gesturing between himself and Louis.

“Entirely irrelevant to everythin’ that’s going on here,” Louis says. “But yes.”

“Sorry,” Zayn says with a laugh. “Dunno why that’d be medically important. Other than that our kid came out of him just fine.”

“He’s a bit frazzled, my husband,” Harry says, looking up at him with a little smile.

“What, should I _not_ be?”

“Can you have a seat for us, Dad?” Emmy says to Zayn, as the ambulance begins to move. “Liability issue.”

Zayn comes over and takes a seat next to Louis.

“Were you under the care of a midwife at all?” she asks Harry.

Harry shakes his head. “I never got far along enough for her to come ‘round. Contractions are around ten minutes apart, I'm only seven inches dilated.”

“Who told you seven? Blood pressure looks excellent, by the way.”

“He's very fit,” Zayn says.

“My doula checked. She used to be a midwife. Wait, fuck, did we forget her?” Harry says, glancing up. “Did she just sort of vanish? I'm so out of it…”

“Gemma sent her home,” Louis supplies.

“Thank God.”

“So, they'll probably put you on Pitocin,” Emmy tells him as they trundle down the road. “Do you want an epidural as well?”

Harry hesitates.

“I get if you were trying for a home birth, you probably wanted to avoid drugs, but if you're doing Pitocin already… Might be worth it just to go whole hog on it. I say this ‘cos you're forty-five, when all is said and done you'll probably be in labor for about thirty hours before you're done, and an epidural will help keep you from getting too tired to push.”

“Christ,” Harry says, and leans forward, his face in his hands. “Alright. That's fine, I'll take the epidural.”

He sounds defeated. Louis restrains himself from reminding him, yet again, how painful and hard this is without drugs. He reminds himself that they're very different people.

Emmy takes the fetal heartbeat, next. Harry grips the armrest hard in anxiety as she does.

“Baby sounds fine,” she says. “Big strong heartbeat.”

He sighs in relief. So does Zayn. Sitting next to him, Louis actually feels his shoulders lower from where they were being held up by tension.

“C’mon, Desmond,” Zayn whispers.

Harry glances up and grins weakly. “He's a lazy one already,” he says. “Lazy and late.”

“Lazy Des,” Zayn says, gazing at Harry.

 

*

 

Loads of Harry’s friends are already packed into the maternity ward waiting room by the time they get Harry into a room and set up, and all pumping Gemma and Mia for information. Security is posted at the elevators, and a massive bodyman who Louis remembers from the wedding is squished into one of the tiny waiting room chairs, reading a Cosmo.

“I don't know anything!” Mia is exclaiming to one of Harry’s cousins when Louis walks in. She glances up, clearly relieved to see him.

“Oi!” Louis says. Only a few people look over, so he climbs up onto a chair and claps his hands loudly. Everyone glances over at him; Liam starts laughing fondly, probably at the fact that he's standing on a chair.

“So Harry’s been admitted,” he says. “It's going to be a while yet, I think. If you've got somewhere to be tomorrow morning, I’d head home and get some sleep, yeah? Gemma and Zayn will keep everyone updated.”

“How long’s a while?” one of Zayn’s friends calls.

Louis spreads his hands. “Dunno. Baby ain't on a timetable. Assume at least five more hours.”

“How is he?” says Shauna.

“Good. Him and baby are both fine. Baby isn't breech or anything, just was slow getting going.”

“Shit, I guess I'll head out, then,” says a bloke Louis recognizes as Markus, Harry’s ex and frequent collaborator. “I've got meetings all day tomorrow. I thought it was like, go time.”

“Not yet, mate. Sorry.”

There's general grumbling and mixed conversation. About half of those present start getting their jackets on and standing up. Louis climbs off the chair and heads over to Liam, Niall and Mia.

“I'm going back to the room,” he says to Liam, who slips an arm around him and pulls him in close so an actor friend of Harry’s can get by. “I think Harold wanted me there for the epidural.”

“You're, like, his new birthing coach,” Niall says in amusement.

Louis shrugs. “I mean, I’ve had one before, is all.”

“Dad’s a comforting presence,” Mia says, smiling up at him.

He winks at her and claps Liam on the shoulder. “Alright. Stay out of trouble, kids.”

Liam squeezes him. “We’ll be here.”

 

*

 

Louis lingers in the doorway of Harry’s room for a moment before he goes in. It’s a fancy hospital with nice suites, and they’ve dimmed the lighting in his room so it doesn't feel as sterile -- in fact, it’s sort of intimate and cozy. Zayn is sat next to Harry, very close to his bed, their hands intertwined. He's talking in a quiet voice and Harry is just watching him, smiling slightly through his pain, nodding at whatever he's saying. He's got an IV in his arm now.

“Hey,” Louis says, when there's a lull. They both glance over at him. “Epidural time?”

“I'm ready,” Harry says.

Louis leans back into the hallway and waves Harry’s nurse over. She holds up a finger at him, but nods, so he heads back into the room.

“How are you?” he says to Harry.

Harry is about to answer and then is gripped by another contraction. Zayn stands so Harry can lean against him, his forehead pressed to Zayn’s abdomen, digging his nails into his forearm and whimpering.

“She's coming,” Louis assures them.

“Good,” Zayn says, wincing.

“I can't do this anymore,” Harry says as he’s coming out of it, his voice cracking and pealing upward, “I can't, I can't, fuck, I really can't…”

“It's almost over, babe.”

“But it isn't,” Harry moans. “I still have to _have_ him.”

“Yeah, but drugs soon, alright?” Zayn kisses him on the head and strokes his hair.

The nurse knocks on the open door. “Hellooo, I've got the anesthetist,” she says, gesturing with her thumb to another woman behind her.

“Hi there,” the woman chirps, squeezing by her and dragging a little table of instruments into the room. “I'm Stephanie, Harry, I'm here to pump you full of drugs and make you feel _very_ good.”

Harry lifts his head. “Then you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen,” he croaks.

She smiles and slips a pair of gloves on, then picks up a syringe and flicks it. “Can you go back in time and say that to my teenaged self? I think I'd have keeled straight over.”

Harry laughs in his good-natured way.

“So you're actually in a perfect position right now, and I’m glad you’re sitting up,” she says, coming over. “Because first I'm going to numb the area on your back where the needle goes in, and then I'm going to ask you to lean forward, with your head against your husband’s chest, and that'll give me access to the spot where I need to administer the injection.”

Zayn continues stroking Harry’s hair, moving his thumb in gentle circles above his ear.

“Needle is huge,” Louis mouths to him.

“What?” Zayn says, blinking at him. There are serious dark circles under his eyes.

“Needle,” Louis mouths again, and makes a gesture with his hands about ten inches apart. “Massive.”

“What?”

“What's he saying?” Harry says, lifting his head again as Stephanie comes behind him with the numbing needles.

“Nothing, Haz.”

“What? Tell me.”

“The needle for the epidural’s sort of big, is all,” Louis says. “I was just warning Zayn, ‘cos they did the same thing with me and Liam, with me head on his chest, and he almost passed out when he saw them put it in me. Like, he staggered, his legs went a bit.”

“Great,” Harry says with a mirthless chuckle.

“It won't hurt at all, though. The numbing hits straight away.”

Stephanie gives him a nod. “Yes, it does.”

“Just stab me, I don't care,” Harry says, barely sounding like himself. “I can't do another contraction, I can't. The ones since they put the IV in me are so much worse. I feel like I'm dying.”

“You might have one more before this kicks in,” Stephanie says, swabbing his back with a wipe.

“God,” Harry moans. Zayn holds him tighter, kissing the crown of his head again.

“You're doin’ great, babe,” he murmurs. “You're incredible. The end’s in sight, yeah?”

“Little pinch,” Stephanie says, and injects him. He barely reacts but for a slight flinch.

“What's going on in the waiting room?” Zayn says, glancing to Louis.

“I told everyone it probably won't happen for a bit,” Louis says. “Some of ‘em went home.”

“With Pitocin, it might happen sooner than you think,” Stephanie says, as she fetches the big needle and comes back around to Harry. “Alright…” she palpates his back with her fingers. “Feel that?”

“I don't feel anythin’, no,” Harry murmurs, his voice muffled by Zayn’s shirt. “Hey, Louis… I just wanted to say, you've been great. With… just, like, in general. Thank you.”

Louis feels badly guilty, then, for the various petty feelings he’s had about Harry having Zayn’s baby. He clears his throat. “‘Course, lad, always.”

“About to inject you,” Stephanie interrupts. “Sorry, just wanted to give a warning.”

Zayn glances down at the needle in her hand, says, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, fuck _that_ ,” in horror, and immediately looks up at the ceiling.

“That bad?” Harry says.

“You don't want to know,” Louis tells him.

Stephanie slides the needle in slowly. He glances away with a shudder.

“I barely feel it,” Harry says, his brows knitted. “It’s just a faint pressure...”

“Good,” Zayn says, staring very determinedly upward.

After a few moments, she rolls away on her little chair, tossing the syringe in a medical waste bag and snapping off her gloves. “All done!”

Zayn sighs in relief and leans down, kissing Harry on the forehead and both cheeks.

“Can't believe you want to kiss me right now,” Harry murmurs.

“Never wanted to kiss you more than right now,” Zayn says, with a grave, passionate sincerity.

Harry looks up at him, bleary-eyed but with love on his face. Zayn smiles down at him and strokes his hair back off his forehead, then reaches down and presses his hand to his middle, holding him close with the other.

Louis glances down, scuffing his shoes on the tile. He wants to go, but he isn't sure if Harry wants him around for a bit longer, until the drugs kick in.

Zayn very gingerly helps Harry lie back down, then glances at Louis.

“Shut the door?” he says, slipping off his shoes.

Louis obliges, and Zayn climbs into bed next to Harry.

“No, no,” Harry protests. “I’m completely sure this isn’t allowed.”

“I don’t care,” Zayn says, shifting so he’s not lying on any of his IVs. He kisses him again. “I don’t.”

“I can give you a bit of privacy,” Louis says, reaching for the door handle.

Harry shakes his head. “We don’t need it. How long ‘til this kicks in?”

“Fifteen minutes, half an hour,” Louis says.

“How long did yours take?”

“‘Round fifteen, but I dunno, I’d had a baby before…”

Harry’s face shutters in a way that’s become rapidly familiar over the last few hours, the immediate precursor to another contraction. “No, no,” he moans, clinging to Zayn.

Zayn wraps his arms around him. “Do the breathing,” he murmurs, rubbing his hand over the curve of Harry’s stomach.

“I _am_ ,” Harry cries, trembling, his face as white as a sheet.

Zayn nods and from then on just lets him be in pain, lets him claw at Zayn’s bicep and groan from between gritted teeth without saying or doing anything but holding him.

“I can’t anymore,” Harry says when it's over, wiping tears from his cheeks. “I can’t fucking do it, I can’t. They’ve gotten so much worse.”

“You can make it a few more minutes, just a few more...”

“Okay,” Harry says weakly, dropping his head like a lead weight against Zayn’s chest. Zayn presses his cheek to the top of Harry’s head.

Watching them, Louis wants to go to Liam, wants to find him and be in his arms. He thinks of when Oliver was born; there was a little curtain over his chest so he didn’t have to see his insides opened up, but Liam went and looked. He held Louis’ hand, but he stood so he could see past the curtain, see everything that makes his husband human. He watched as they pulled Oliver out, all bloody and messy.

Liam held their son first, once they’d cleaned him up. He calmed his squalling while Louis was stitched back together, then brought him over the second he was done. They’d gazed at him and each other like there was no world outside the door of that room.

“Hey,” Louis says softly. They look up. “I’ll be in the waitin’ room, alright?”

Harry seems to want to protest.

“Harry,” he says, somewhat exasperated. “You don’t _need_ me. You’ve got your real coach. That bloke right there, who went to all your classes and read all your books and, like, fathered your kid. Okay?”

“Alright,” Harry relents. “It’s just _he’s_ never had a baby before...”

“Doesn’t matter,” Louis says, glancing at Zayn. “He loves you to bits, that’s all that matters. Trust me. I’ll be in the waiting room.”

Harry nods and gives him a boyish little wave. Louis waves back. Zayn chuckles at them.

 

*

 

When Louis gets back, everyone's sat down and there's no chairs available, so he sits on Liam’s lap. This amuses Niall and makes Mia roll her eyes.

“You two are gross,” she says.

“No, _this_ is gross,” Louis says, and he gives Liam a sloppy open-mouthed kiss. Liam laughs against his lips and gropes his arse.

“Stop!” Mia protests.

Louis pulls back, and they grin at each other.

“So,” Liam says, squeezing his thigh. “How's our boy?”

Shauna leans over, so she can hear what Louis says above the general din of the room.

“Good, good… he got the epidural, I dunno if it's kicked in yet, but he's having worse contractions, so that's a good sign.”

Shauna nods. “I'll tell Gemma, she went downstairs to meet Anne.”

“Has anyone talked to Trisha since we got here?”

“I’ve been talking to all of them,” Mia says. “Nan doesn’t want to bring Granddad to the hospital, ‘cos he gets all anxious, Doniya can’t find anyone to take the kids ‘cos Zayn’s usually the one she relies on, Waliyha and Saf might swing by later and drop off some snacks for us…”

“I'm settlin’ in for a long night,” Niall says. He wiggles his feet. “Got me comfy socks on.”

Cala has fallen asleep in the seat next to Mia, cushioned by several people's coats. Occasionally Mia jostles her and asks if she wants to go home and go to bed, but she keeps sleepily protesting that she wants to meet the baby.

 

*

 

As soon as the epidural kicks in, Harry mellows intensely. His eyes go fuzzy and warm and becomes his usual sweet lovey self again, the bloke Zayn hasn't seen quite as often since they started work on this baby project.

A nurse who comes in to check on him gives Zayn a look for being in his bed, but doesn't say anything. She does push him to the left a bit, so she can examine Harry.

“Still seven inches dilated,” she sighs, flicking her pen flashlight off.

“Wait, really?” Harry says blearily. “Still?”

“Yep. You’re in for a long night.”

“That's alright, I'm not in pain anymore,” he says. “I just feel bad we’ve got everybody waiting…”

Zayn shakes his head. “Don't worry about anyone but you right now.”

Harry nods in a sort of stoned way, looking up at the ceiling. The nurse leaves.

“I wonder what instruments he’ll like to play,” he says softly.

Zayn smiles. “Piano?”

“I was thinking bass.”

“Why bass?”

“Dunno, something about how he moves around in me... He feels like a bassist.”

Zayn chuckles. “How d’you -- you're so odd, mate.”

“I'm not,” Harry protests dreamily, nuzzling up against him. “I can't explain it. You'll know when you meet him.”

“I believe you,” Zayn says. He's getting a bit tired; his eyes keep fluttering closed. He wonders if he should text someone to bring him a coffee.

“I'm glad…” Harry trails off. “I've sort of the spent this whole time so scared something would happen, that I’d never get to meet him… I think now it's sort of… now it's getting real, that I will get to meet him. Especially since I'm not in pain anymore. I'm like -- I've loved him this whole time, but now it's like I'm letting myself feel _all_ of it. It's so much. I can't explain it. It's…” He inhales and smiles, shaking his head.

Zayn is too tired to make words out of all the feelings he’s having. He kisses Harry on the cheek, nudging at the side of his face with his nose.

“We made a new person,” Harry whispers.

“Out of fairy dust,” Zayn says hoarsely.

 

*

 

They entertain each other for hours in the waiting room; Niall busts out a pack of cards and starts a game of poker that ends up dragging until two in the morning. They bet various vending machine items and things they find in their bags instead of money. At one point, Liam is nearly out of chips, and puts down a linty thing of Rolos he dug out of one of the innermost pockets of his jacket.

“That’s good for five,” Niall says, scratching the bridge of his nose.

“What? That’s worth ten, at least! Polos are worth ten!”

“But we’d decided chocolate is worth less,” Shauna puts in, as she sweeps her auburn hair back into a bun. “Because there’s so much chocolate in the vending machines. It’s simple supply and demand.”

“Payno, stop tipping your cards, I can see your hand,” Louis says, laughing.

By three a.m. Louis and Niall are the only ones who haven’t dozed off, so they go on a walk. They look at all the babies in the nursery, swaddled up all warm, dozy or wiggly or somewhere in between.

Louis presses his hand to the glass. “Look at all these brand-new people,” he says, smiling.

“They’ve got no idea,” Niall says drily, his hands in his pockets. “Noo idea…”

“That’s my favorite thing about babies,” he murmurs. “They don’t know, yet.”

“It is sorta nice,” Niall admits, smiling.

“I miss having a baby in the house, sometimes.”

Niall taps the glass gently with a knuckle. “Go on and nick one o’ them, Liam won’t mind.”

Louis laughs.

They walk back over to Harry’s room, wanting to check on him, but when they push the door open they find that Harry and Zayn are fast asleep.

They’re curled around each other, Harry’s forehead resting on Zayn’s shoulder and his hand gripping Zayn’s sleeve as he drools on him. Zayn’s hand is between them, cupped to their baby.

“Should Zayn be in the bed with him? Feel like that’s a hazard,” Niall mutters.

Louis notices Harry’s pulse ox monitor has slipped off his finger. “One sec,” he whispers, and goes over to fix it.

He very gently takes Harry’s hand, and Harry stirs, looking up at him with half-asleep eyes.

“Don’t mind me,” Louis says softly, putting it back on his finger and dropping his hand.

“What time is it?” Harry whispers.

“Three-thirty.”

“How’s Cala?”

“Anne took her home for a bit to sleep. I told her you probably wouldn’t have the baby for a while yet.”

“I can’t tell at all how far I am,” Harry says. He jabs himself in the leg. “Still numb.”

“How’s the catheter?”

“ _Love_ the catheter. First time in months I haven’t been up to wee once an hour.”

Zayn stirs and makes a noise in his sleep. Harry strokes his salt-and-pepper hair.

“I can tell a nurse to come by and check how you’re coming along,” Louis offers.

“Yeah, that’d be great, Lou, thank you.” Harry glances over, sees Niall in the doorway and smiles. Niall smiles back and gives him a little wave.

“You coming in?” Harry whispers.

“I’m a bit afraid,” Niall says.

“Of what?”

“Dunno,” Niall says. “Whatever’s goin’ on… down there.”

“Literally nothing is going on down there, Neil,” Louis says, laughing.

“Just to be safe!” Niall says, putting his hands in the air. “I dunno!”

“How’d you get through Barb having Jimmy?”

“I stayed up by her head the whole time. Closed me eyes quite a lot, too.”

Zayn stirs again. “You’re all so _loud_ ,” he mumbles.

“Hi sleepyhead,” Harry says.

“You ‘avin’ the baby, yet?” Zayn yawns, rubbing at his eyes.

“Not yet, far as I can tell.”

“I’m goin’ back to sleep, then.” Zayn turns to Louis and looks sleepily over his shoulder. “Hey, where’s my kid?”

“Cala’s with Anne, back at the house.”

“Good,” Zayn says. “Those chairs out there are shit, they’ll warp ‘er spine.”

" _Our_ kid is asleep in one of those chairs, currently," Louis says in amusement.

"Right, well, she's an adult, she can make that decision for 'erself."

Harry is poking at his leg again. “So weird how I can’t feel this.”

“Can you feel your willy?” Zayn says to him, grinning.

“No, that’s why I’ve got the catheter in, so I don’t wee the bed.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cos I’ve heard orgasms speed up labor...”

Harry chuckles low in his throat.

“Alright then,” Louis says, clapping his hands together. “I’m going to fetch you a nurse, Haz.”

Harry salutes him.

 

*

 

The nurse almost seems annoyed with Harry and his uncooperative cervix. “Eight inches,” she says, with the enthusiasm of a bartender announcing last call.

“Only eight?” Harry says, disappointed.

Zayn glances over at him. He’s been kicked out of the bed by her, and relegated to the chair again, but he’s still holding both of Harry’s hands.

“Has anyone talked to you about a C-section?” she says.

Harry looks at her nametag. Beatrice.

“Beatrice,” he says, “I’d really prefer not to have one, if that’s possible.”

She pops an eyebrow and puts his hands on her hips, looking him up and down. “Baby might be too big,” she says impassively.

“Can we wait and see?”

“I’ll come back in a few hours,” she says.

Harry nods and sinks back against the pillows.

 

*

 

Zayn dozes fitfully in the chair for the rest of the night. It’s extremely comfortable, for a chair in a hospital, but he doesn’t sleep very well without having Harry next to him. He keeps jerking out of dreams, wanting to lay eyes on his husband, make sure he’s still there.

Harry sleeps like a rock until seven in the morning, when Zayn’s woken up by a whimper of pain from him. His eyes spring open.

“Contractions are back,” Harry says, his voice devoid of any warmth or enthusiasm at all.

“They hurt again, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

Zayn gets up with a sigh and fetches the nurse, who fetches Cora.

“Hello there!” she says, bustling into the room. “I’ve just come on shift. Hi Harry! How are we feeling?”

“I think my epidural wore off,” Harry says, his head lolling on his pillows.

“Oh no! Let’s get _that_ taken care of, then. So how long have you been here?”

Harry blinks. “Uh. I dunno. What day is it?”

Cora laughs. “It’s Monday morning.”

“When’d you go into labor, again?” Zayn says.

Harry wiggles his hand. “I really felt it early Sunday, like three a.m., but it sort of got started earlier than that, ‘round midnight, I guess. We didn’t come here ‘til Sunday evening, though.”

“So we’ll say about thirty hours,” Cora says, snapping some gloves on.

Zayn sits back in the chair, picking up Harry’s hand again and squeezing it.

“Are you going to make me get a C-section?” Harry says to her bluntly.

She smiles indulgently. “I can’t _make_ you do anything, Harry.”

“But are you going to recommend it?”

“Well…”

Zayn stands. “I’m going for a walk,” he says. “Me leg’s going numb. You want anything?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.” He hesitates. “I kind of want my mum, actually.”

“I’ll ring her.”

He calls his own mum and gives her a morning update (“Tell Harry to do some jumping jacks,” is Trisha’s sage advice) then goes into the waiting room, where everyone has scarpered except for Mia, the boys, and Gemma and Andrew. They’re all asleep in various contorted positions on the chairs and couches.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Liam jerks awake. “What’s up?” he says, a little loudly, looking around in confusion and blinking hard.

“Literally nothing,” Zayn says with an aggrieved sigh.

Louis stirs, shaking his head. “What?” he says.

“I just want this to be over with,” Zayn whispers. “He’s being fuckin’… just bullheaded.”

“It’s alright, Zayn,” Louis says in a soothing voice, getting up. “Want to grab some coffee?”

“No, I want to have my son born already.”

“Look,” Louis whispers to him, gripping him by the arm and pulling him around a corner. “I get it. You’re incredibly stubborn, and Harry’s more of a pleaser, and you’re used to him being please-y. But unless his life or the baby’s life is in danger, you’ve got to just play ball with him here. He’s vulnerable, his emotions are all over the place, he’s terrified, and he’s got a very good reason for being uncomfortable about --”

“I know!” Zayn snaps. “I know! He’s my fuckin’ _husband_ , I know all this!”

“Then take a deep breath and fuckin’ relax!”

Zayn does take a deep breath, but his ribcage feels like it’s compressed by annoyance and anxiety. “I have to ring Anne,” he mutters.

“Go ring Anne. I’m going to bring everyone tea or coffee or whatever, you want something?”

Zayn shakes his head.

“Hey,” he says, taking Louis by the sleeve. Louis looks up at him with those light eyes, their daughter’s eyes. “I really appreciate everythin’ you’ve been doing. All three of you, but you in particular, mate, you’ve been incredible. Especially considering…” he hesitates, and doesn’t finish his thought.

Louis smiles in his sweet way. “‘Course, Zayn. Don’t worry about it.”

 

*

 

Mia can’t sleep past nine and wanders around, obsessively checking her emails, although the theater said they wouldn’t call with word about the job for at least another week.

Oliver rings her as she’s walking, surprisingly early for him.

“You’re up?” she says.

“Um, yeah, Meems, I’ve got school?”

“Don’t call me Meems! It sounds like memes!”

Oliver laughs.

“That’s right, I forgot today wasn’t like, a national holiday.”

“Yeah, the fucking, second coming of Christ or whatever,” he says. “Hark the herald angels sing.”

“Don’t be salty,” she says, grinning.

“I’m not! Just a bit sick of hearing about this baby… ain’t like he’s related to me.”

“He’s like a cousin to you.”

“Eh, sort of.”

“You’re being a brat, right now. You like Cala, don’t you?”

“Cala’s a sweet kid,” Oliver says. She can hear him walking, like he’s going out to his car. “This kid… I worry he might grow up to be a bit of a douche.”

“Don’t say that! He’s only a baby!”

“Think about it. Looks like Harry and Zayn? Spoiled his whole life?”

“‘Scuse me, _I_ look like Zayn.”

“Well, you're not a bloke.”

“And we don’t know if they’ll spoil him… come on, this is my brother you’re talking about.”

“No, _I’m_ your brother.”

“Oh, _that’s_ why you’re peeved,” Mia crows.

“I’m not peeved,” Oliver protests ineffectively.

“Sure, sure.”

“Alright, whatever, Meems.”

“Stop!”

They talk for a bit longer and ring off, so Oliver can go sleep through his first period economics lesson. By happenstance, Mia walks by Harry’s room, and knocks on the door with a knuckle.

“Come in,” her father calls.

Mia opens the door. A male doctor is tending to Harry, who looks worse than she’s ever seen him allow himself to look. He’s a clammy mess, with purpley dark circles under his eyes, his hair straggly and tied back in a limp bun. His mouth is a hard flat line.

Zayn waves to her. He’s at Harry’s side, holding him leaned forward as the doctor examines his back.

“Gyno fucked up his second epidural,” Zayn explains to her. “It didn’t work properly, he’s been in pain the last hour. But apparently he’s close, now.”

“I’ll have him start pushing as soon as I get this fixed for him,” the doctor intones.

“Oh, shit, that soon?” Mia says, raising her eyebrows.

“Don’t get too excited,” the doctor says. “He might be at it for a while.”

“Yipee,” Harry deadpans.

“You’ll feel better once this kicks in again, love,” Zayn says in a fake-cheerful voice.

“Quit talking to me like I’m a poodle,” Harry says to him, glancing up at him.

Zayn grimaces. “Be angry at Cora, not me.”

“Believe me, I am.”

“I’ll, um, leave you to it then,” Mia says. “I’ll let everyone know?”

Harry nods and mouths _thank you._ She hurries away.

 

*

 

Once the epidural kicks back in, Harry relaxes, to Zayn’s great relief. He even gets joking around with the doctor, which is accommodating of him considering said doctor has an entire hand in him as they’re talking.

“Look who’s fully effaced and dilated!” crows the doctor, whose name is Sam. Harry weakly high-fives him.

“So,” Zayn says, hovering anxiously. “How’s this work?”

“We talked about this like a million times in class, love,” Harry says, smiling, reaching over and taking his hand.

“He isn’t feeling it _quite_ yet,” Sam says. “So we’ll just have him sort of breathe down for a while… baby heads south… I say push, he pushes, he yells, breaks a few bones in your hand, rest for a few beats, and so on.”

“ _You_ say push?” Zayn says. “I thought Cora was deliverin’ ‘im.”

“She was,” Harry says placidly. “Until she fucked up and stressed me out. I don’t need her presence right now. This is all about me, I need to, y’know, stay calm.”

“I’ve been told I’m good at keeping people calm,” Sam says with a smile. He’s very tall, and boyish the way some very tall men are, with sticky-out ears.

They go through a series of preparations that Harry had thought out months in advance; Zayn brings up a playlist of hypnotic music for him, he does some of his breathing for a good long time, Zayn rubs lavender on his chest.

Zayn is exhausted at this point, swaying on his feet like a sleeping horse. His energy is buoyed by how deeply connected he feels to Harry. For thirty-some odd hours now, he’s been holding Harry’s hand or pressed against him, feeling Harry tense with every contraction, having his hand squeezed with every contraction. He feels like an extension of him, like they’ve poured enough of themselves into each other in these hours that he’s no longer entirely sure whose body he’s in.

Sam has Harry start actually trying to push around ten. Zayn brings a chair over and sits in it backwards, resting his elbow on the back so his arm doesn’t go numb holding Harry’s hand for as long as this is going to take.

Harry is spectacular and Zayn tells him so. He’s very calm and centered and focused, like he’s slogging up a hill in deep snow, just putting one foot in front of the other.

“You’re doin’ incredible,” Zayn says reverently, yet again, when this has been going on for about an hour. Despite his best efforts, his hand _is_ going numb, but he's past minding that.

Harry glances over at him and gives him a fond, wobbly smile. “Almost there, right?”

“So close,” Zayn murmurs, leaning down and kissing his temple. “So close.”

At one point Sam tells Harry not to push for a minute, and Harry has great trouble following this instruction, even as a nurse presses her hand to his shoulder and loudly repeats it. Zayn, happy to make himself useful, leans into Harry’s field of vision and reminds him what Heather told him.

“Breathe like you’re blowin’ out a match,” he says.

Harry gazes at him, eyes fixed intensely on his face, and follows his instructions perfectly.

The longer it goes on, the more difficult it gets for Harry, who’s slept fitfully for two nights in a row and admits to Zayn about two hours in that he’s feeling every minute of forty-five years old.

“I’m so tired,” he says softly, his voice crackly and thin. “I feel like I really can’t do it, I’m so tired.”

“You’re doing great,” Sam immediately responds, peeking up at him from rom the end of the bed.

Zayn strokes back a wisp of hair that's curled over his ear. “You can do it. You’ve got this in the bag. We’re in the home stretch.”

“I feel like we keep saying that…”

“Aye, but now it’s actually true, isn’t it? You’ve got this, love. Think about him. Think about seeing his little face, and listenin’ to him cry, and that little white hat they put on ‘em…”

Harry’s eyes grow glassy with tears, and he nods.

“The little hat,” he says, choked up.

“The little hat,” Zayn repeats, wiping his own eyes. “Damn, why did _that_ get me?”

Harry laughs. “Over here crying like some fucking… you’re a weenie, Zayn Malik…”

“Wreckin' all my street cred.”

Fifteen more minutes go by in the blink of an eye; Zayn is counting time in contractions now, in the pressure that Harry feels and which is immediately transferred to Zayn via his hand.

The last bit is the hardest for Harry, and Zayn all but crawls into bed with him. He’s got one knee on the edge of the gurney and is bent over him, holding one of his hands with the other arm wrapped tightly around him, kissing him on the head and murmuring nothings to him. His love for Harry and their baby pounds like a drumbeat in his chest, intense and primal and unrelenting.

Harry cries out in his ear, not in pain but from the sheer exertion, and Zayn keeps murmuring _almost, almost, almost_ , even as this part of it drags to three hours. He isn’t sure how long it’s been until a nurse calls out the time: one-sixteen in the afternoon. He’s totally gobsmacked by this. Time doesn’t mean much to him anymore.

“We’ve nearly got him,” Sam says, finally. “Just one or two more good ones, Harry.”

Zayn rubs Harry’s shoulder. It's clear he's working valiantly just to stay awake.

“Okay,” Harry croaks. “You promise?”

Sam laughs. “You’ve got my word on that. I’ve almost got him.”

“C’mon,” Zayn says, kissing his cheek. “You’re excited, right? I’m fucking beyond excited.”

Harry crunches the bones in his hand together one last time, then sags against him. Zayn rubs circles on his back and pats him, dreading hearing Sam’s voice say, “One more,” but instead he hears the catlike wail of a baby.

His heart jerks in his chest. Harry lifts his head immediately.

“Baby?” he says, sounding deeply shocked, like the last nine months were all a cruel joke on him, like there was never going to be any baby at the end of it.

Tears are already gathering in Zayn’s eyes as he listens to his son cry. “Holy shit,” he says breathlessly.

Sam lifts him up, a bloody squalling mess, and lays him over Harry’s chest and abdomen. A nurse comes over and starts cleaning him up.

Harry starts sobbing, which only wrecks Zayn further. He can barely see, and he’s grinning like a loon. It feels like there’s fireworks going off inside his chest and throat.

Sam puts the scissors in Zayn’s hand to cut the cord with, and he does so, completely dazed. He turns back to Harry, who’s got the swaddled baby in his arms now.

Harry turns and looks up at him, his face shining with bliss. The baby, so pink and new, shifts in his arms, his eyes closed and his hands fisted. Zayn adores him instantly and all-powerfully.

“God,” he breathes, leaning in close and kissing Harry all over his face. Harry grabs him hard by the side of his face and kisses him back.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Zayn says tearily, wrapping an arm around him, burying his face against the crook of Harry’s neck.

“I love you,” Harry rasps. “I love you so much, fuck…”

They gaze at Desmond in his arms. He wriggles his tiny little nose.

Harry laughs a musical laugh of awed disbelief. “Oh my God, he’s perfect,” he whispers.

“That is a _very_ cute newborn,” a nurse affirms as he comes over. “Trust me, not even a quarter of them are that cute when they first come out.”

He examines Desmond for about thirty seconds; Harry holds him very protectively and keeps glancing up at the nurse, like he’s trying to puzzle out what he’s thinking.

“Nine point six Apgar,” he calls out to Sam, who’s been pulled out in the hallway by someone wanting to discuss another patient of his.

“Excellent!” Sam calls back through the doorway, giving a thumbs up.

“That’s good,” Harry murmurs. “Not, like, the best it _could_ be…”

The nurse laughs. “Trust me, that’s a healthy baby.”

Harry pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Alright,” he murmurs.

The nurse leaves them be, and Zayn reaches out, running a finger over their son’s tiny hands and little cheeks. He remembers when Mia was born, how bowled over he was, and he's shocked to find he feels the exact same way, now. Time and age have left this part of his brain untouched.

“He's ours,” Zayn murmurs. “All ours. That tiny thing...”

Harry, crying and laughing with joy at the same time, lets out a hiccup. “I can't believe he's real,” he says. “All the times I imagined him...”

Zayn kisses him again. His heart is going wild in his chest. He’s head over heels for every detail of this moment; the intense love on Harry’s face, the protective clasp of his arms, the reverent way he's stroking Desmond’s ruddy head.

Someone brings a bottle over for them and Harry feeds him. At one point, his head tips back sleepily and his grip slips, so Zayn reaches out and steadies the bottle for him.

“He is cute, isn't he?” Zayn murmurs. “I think he looks like you, a bit…”

“I dunno how you could tell that already,” Harry says hoarsely, but he looks pleased.

“He's got your nose, I think.”

Harry rests his fingertip against Desmond’s nose. Desmond squirms in his arms.

“He isn't crying at all,” Harry marvels.

“He likes you.”

Harry smiles warmly, gazing at his scrunched little face. “I wish he'd open his eyes…”

“It's too bright in here,” Zayn says. He reaches out and strokes Desmond’s cheek. “Innit, kiddo? You're used to the dark, yeah?”

“I want Cala to meet him,” Harry says suddenly, glancing over at Zayn. “And Mia, and my mum and everybody… but we ought to give him a little time, first.”

“Aye, maybe let’s wait ‘til they weigh ‘im, and all that,” Zayn says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder.

“I'm just too proud of him, I want everybody to see right away.”

Zayn laughs. “Look what we made, you lot.”

“Feast your eyes,” Harry murmurs, glancing back at their son. “You wish you had a baby this cute. But he's all ours, you can't have him. Neener neener.”

“Wonder if Cala’s old enough to hold him,” Zayn says. “Maybe if she sits in someone else's lap...”

They sit with him for a while, just observing him, watching his minute facial expressions. He opens his eyes slowly; they're big in his face, like Harry’s. A nurse comes by and slaps wristbands on all of them, even around Desmond’s tiny wrist. Zayn doesn't remember this happening when Mia was born, but there's a lot he doesn't remember from twenty-three years ago.

She gives them a minute more before she comes by to take the baby. Everyone seems to be tiptoeing around them a bit; Zayn isn't sure if it's the fame thing, or Harry’s arduous labor and obvious exhaustion.

“I just need to do a few things,” she whispers. It's Beatrice again, Zayn notices. He's surprised she's still on shift. “Get his footprints, weigh him…”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles, very reluctantly handing him up to her.

Sam sidles up to Harry as she walks away. “Hey there,” he says. “You've got one last thing to do for me, Harry.”

“Placenta?” Harry says, clearly battling hard to stay awake. Zayn strokes his hair again.

“D'you need me, love, or can I go with the baby?” he whispers.

“No, no… go keep the baby company,” Harry says, patting his forearm.

Zayn comes across the room to the little baby station, where Beatrice is weighing him. He's wriggly; he's got the little hat on, now.

“Big boy,” she remarks. “Nine pounds, two ounces.”

Zayn winces on Harry’s behalf.

“So I've got your permission to give him a Vitamin K shot?”

“Course. What's that do, exactly?”

“It helps with blood clotting. Want to pick him up and bring him to the bassinet for me?”

Zayn nods and gathers his son into his arms. It's been ages since he's held a newborn. He's again in awe of how little he is, how protective he feels toward him. He cradles Desmond’s little head and kisses him. He still loves that new baby smell.

Once he’s deposited in the bassinet, she gives him a shot in the thigh. Zayn notices the room behind him has gone quiet, with Sam murmuring something he can't hear. He's about to turn around when the baby starts wailing.

“Oh, I know,” Beatrice says to him sympathetically. “It's a lot, isn't it?... You can pick him up, if you like.”

Zayn obliges, stroking his back and murmuring to him, rocking his weight from foot to foot. Desmond quiets down and lets out a cute little hiccup.

“Damnit,” Sam says under his breath.

Zayn turns, his heart speeding up. Beatrice has left his side. Everyone's surrounding Harry’s bed. A monitor is beeping frantically.

“BP’s dropping,” Sam says. “Sod it, I'm taking him in. Bea, call OR four. Someone give me twenty-five migs of nanos set to clot.” One of the nurses dives for a drawer and starts pawing through it. “Hurry, hurry!”

Zayn’s mouth goes dry; he's lightheaded. He sets the baby down, feeling like he's floating above his own body. The baby begins to cry. It’s tinny and strange in his ears.

A nurse moves from the side of the gurney to the foot of it, and he catches a glimpse of blood-soaked sheets. Sam stabs an ashen Harry in the thigh with a needle, and then they're rushing him out the door. Zayn follows, numb, uncomprehending.

Beatrice has lingered behind, and stops him in his tracks out in the hall.

“Zayn, I'm sorry, you can't come,” she says.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” he screams in her face. “What’ve you done to my husband!”

“Zayn, he was hemorrhaging --”

Zayn desperately pushes past her. She grabs him and pulls him back by his jacket, but he's a man possessed, his vision a tunnel aimed at the hall that Harry has disappeared down.

As he struggles, he hears familiar voices and quickened footsteps. Suddenly arms are around him, pulling him back.

“Stop!” he screams, fighting them.

It's Liam. Liam holds him steady while he writhes in his grip wildly.

“What happened?” Louis exclaims. “What's going on?”

Beatrice hesitates. “I can't talk to non-family --”

“Talk to _me_ ,” Zayn shouts at her. He's trembling and clawing at Liam’s chest, trying to push him away.

“Should I call security?” she says.

“No, no,” Liam assures her, wrangling him in strong arms, pulling him down into a sitting position. “Zayn,” he says.

Zayn goes limp. He stares at him, not seeing him.

“Breathe for me.”

Zayn breathes, and the grip of intense panic ebbs, but it opens like a trap door to the gnawing terror underneath. He shakes harder. Liam grips him by the back of the neck and pulls him close, his face against Liam's shoulder.

“I can have someone give him a shot of Ativan --” Beatrice tries, and Zayn interrupts her, screaming, “ _No!_ Tell me what ‘appened! Tell me where they took ‘im!”

“Mr Styles had a postpartum hemorrhage,” she says quietly. Louis sucks in air between his teeth. “Right after they delivered the placenta. Sam caught it very fast, but he was losing a lot of blood, his BP plummeted -- it was the best course of action to take him to the OR.”

“I want to see him,” Zayn demands.

“They're working on him, Zayn,” Liam whispers. “You can't.”

“I'm going to go assist,” Beatrice says. “Someone will be out with more information soon.”

“Thanks,” Louis tells her. “Thank you.”

She walks away in her thick-soled trainers. Zayn numbly watches her feet go by.

“God,” Liam whispers to no one in particular.

“Is anyone with the baby?” Louis says quietly. “Someone ought to be with the baby...”

Their voices sound bizarre to Zayn, like they're a television that's on in the other room when he's half asleep. He can't make himself grasp the meaning of what they're saying. He wants his mum, suddenly; he wants his mum like he hasn’t in years.

“Doesn’t look like there's anyone in the room. Do they think, like -- are we supposed to be --”

“I'll go sit with him. Wait, someone ought to --” Louis hesitates and drops his voice. “I ought to go say something to Gemma, at the very least.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.”

“I just -- she ought to be aware there was a complication.”

Zayn’s shaking is out of control, like he's got the flu. Liam rubs his back and squeezes his shirt in his fist. “You're alright,” he whispers.

Louis’ footsteps retreat. Dimly, he registers that the hand Harry was squeezing is now throbbing with a dull ache.

Liam is quiet, which is nice, because Zayn thinks he'll vomit if he tries to speak right now. He makes a valiant attempt at breathing less shallowly.

“D’you want to see your baby?” Liam says after a few minutes, wrecking the silence.

“No,” Zayn says, gripped by nausea and fear. He has a superstitious notion that if he catches even a glimpse of Desmond, something will happen to Harry. “No, no.”

“Okay, mate.”

Zayn thinks of Cala, waiting for them for so many hours now. He hadn't wanted her to see Harry in his miserable state, he only wanted her to have happy memories of meeting the baby. Now he wonders what the hell he’s done to his daughter, keeping her from him.

Louis’ footsteps come back. He disappears into the room behind them. Zayn hears Desmond fussing. His instincts urge him to go soothe his baby, but he can't move.

“It'll be okay, Zayn,” Liam whispers. “This is a very good hospital, modern medicine is incredible --”

“Shut up,” Zayn says aggressively. His face is still buried against Liam's shoulder, which is now soaked with tears. “Shut up, please.”

“Okay,” Liam says softly, continuing to rub his back. A gurney passes them. Zayn’s eyes are closed, but he hears its wheels rolling.

Gemma comes down the hall a little while later. Zayn glances up. She looks ashen and grim.

“Have they come back yet?” she whispers.

“No,” Liam says apologetically. “Not yet.”

She nods. “I'm going to, um…” She inhales with difficulty. “I'll go meet the baby.”

“Okay,” Liam says, reaching up and squeezing her hand as she passes by them.

Zayn’s breath hitches in his throat. He stands, unable to crouch like a child any longer, but with no idea what to do once he's standing.

Liam stands with him, eyeing him in concern.

“Where do I go?” Zayn says, pacing madly. “What do I --”

“Zayn, there’s nothing you can _do_ right now.”

“That’s my _husband!_ ”

“I know! I know!”

In the delivery room, he hears Louis trying quietly to soothe his baby.

“Zayn,” Liam suddenly says.

He turns. Down the hall, like a dream, Dr Cora is floating in her burgundy scrubs. She's got blood on them, and on her gloves as well. Zayn’s heart drops sickeningly in his chest.

But she smiles at them.

“He's alright!” she yells, still meters down the hall. “He's doing fine!”

Zayn collapses against Liam in relief, his head pounding with adrenaline. Liam squeezes him, rubbing his back.

Louis and Gemma hurry back out of the room, Desmond in Louis’ arms.

“Did I hear that right?” she says, her hand pressed to her chest.

Cora slows to a bouncy stop in front of them and pulls off her surgeon’s cap. Bits of her red hair stand up from the static cling.

“Yes, yes, he's fine,” she says, still smiling. “Really gave us quite a scare. It happens, very rarely, that after the placenta comes out, the uterine muscles don't tighten back up. Harry had a few risk factors -- long labor, Pitocin, his age, the size of the baby, earlier complications -- and he began to bleed profusely and uncontrollably."

Zayn involuntarily twitches at this. His entire body jerks, like he's trying to shoo a fly.

"Dr Sam tried to stop it, but he couldn't manually, so he thought very quickly and got some clotting nanobots in him and rushed him to the OR. And thank goodness that Harry kicked me off his delivery team, because I'm a surgeon, and Sam isn't. So I was fresh and ready to go.” She winks at them. “Got the bleeding fully stopped, got his blood pressure safely back up. No hysterectomy needed, no prolonged recovery. He's actually recovering now, we've just started him on a blood transfusion.”

“I need to see him,” Zayn says hoarsely, wiping the tears from his face.

“Of course. Just give us a few minutes to get him settled in the recovery room.”

“Okay,” he replies, still a bit fearful, and desperate to lay eyes on Harry himself. “Thanks, thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, just doing my job. Nice to see you again, Gemma,” Cora adds as she walks away.

“Wish it was under different circumstances,” Gemma yells back, and the doctor laughs.

Louis takes Zayn by the arm and guides him back into the delivery room. He's starting to come back into his body, and he feels everything very intensely; the strange light from halogen bulb above where the gurney was, Louis’ small hand pinching his sleeve, Gemma’s crisp perfume and Liam’s woodsy cologne.

Louis sits him in an armchair. “Take your baby, alright?” he says in a soft voice.

He lowers Desmond into his arms. Zayn is immediately comforted by his primal bond with this little helpless creature, this gentle and perfect weight in his arms. The baby gazes up at him, curious, unknowing.

Gemma bends over and encircles her arms around his neck. He presses his forehead to her shoulder and exhales hard.

“That was a bit dodgy, wasn't it?” she says hoarsely.

 

*

 

They don’t let Zayn back for another twenty minutes. He remains in the chair the entire time, leaned back with Desmond across his chest, too brain-fried and exhausted to do anything but coo to the baby when he fusses and stare up at the ceiling, aching for Harry.

It feels like it ought to be midnight, or one a.m., or the witching hour. Some time of night when bad things are meant to happen. He’s astounded when Beatrice comes to fetch him and his watch tells him it’s two-thirty in the afternoon.

Another nurse takes the baby to the nursery. Zayn is grateful to be relieved; he’s so tired now that he was afraid he would doze off in the chair and drop Desmond. He walks behind her with his hands shoved in his pockets, focusing all his energy on standing upright.

“Harry’s been up and talking intermittently. Keeps asking for two things,” she says. “For us to let everyone know he’s alright, and for us to please bring him his baby...”

Zayn’s heart is pierced by this.

Beatrice creaks the door open to the recovery room gently, then points out Harry to him.

Zayn rushes over to him, gripped by the desperate need to know he’s alive, not quite fully believing Cora -- needing to see it with his own eyes.

Harry’s eyes flutter, and he lets out a soft groan.

Zayn collapses into the chair next to him. “Babe,” he whispers.

“Zayn?” Harry says softly.

“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” Zayn says, choked up, taking his hand.

Harry shifts on the bed, opening his eyes slightly and then squinting against the light. An IV is pumping lab-made blood into him. “What happened? They sort of told me, but...”

Zayn can’t speak for a moment. “I dunno, love,” he says with difficulty. “I turned around and you were bleedin’ bad, and they rushed you out of there…”

He breaks off, and Harry squeezes his hand. “Where’s our baby?”

“‘E’s fine, they took ‘im to the nursery…”

Harry sighs in relief, wincing as he does.

“They kept telling me he was alright,” he croaks, “but I didn’t quite believe them.”

Zayn swallows. “I know what you mean.”

Harry blinks hard as he looks up at the ceiling. The room is dimly lit, but Zayn can see he’s the verge of tears.

“I could’ve died,” he says. “If I did it at home the way I wanted. I could’ve died.”

“No, no, babe, you can’t think of it like that,” Zayn begs him. “People have babies at home all the time, and it don’t go south like that, this was a freak thing --”

“I feel so stupid,” Harry whispers, tears trickling down the sides of his face.

“No, no, no,” Zayn says, getting up and very gingerly wrapping his arms around him so Harry can cry against his chest. “No, no, no.” He kisses his head. Holding him, hearing his voice is such a relief. All he wants to do is take him home and go to sleep.

“I _scared_ you --”

“Don’t feel guilty, don’t feel stupid, don’t feel bad at all, not even for a second, alright? I’m so --” Zayn exhales. Harry draws back from him, looking at his face, very weakly pushing his hair back up off his forehead.

“When I thought… when I thought somethin’ might happen to you, I just, like… I relived every stupid fight we’ve had, every time I’ve been rotten to you, every time I’ve made you upset, and I couldn’t -- I wanted to jump out of me own skin. That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever felt, thinking I might lose you.”

“Zayn,” Harry says, his voice raw and ragged. “Don’t… I love you, you’re wonderful...”

“I could be better,” Zayn says, blinking back tears, kissing his forehead. “I could be nicer.”

“So could I… So could everybody,” Harry says, and Zayn laughs ruefully.

 

*

 

“I feel responsible, somehow,” Louis whispers to Niall, bouncing his leg.

“Why?” Niall mutters back.

“‘Cos I had this feeling like something was wrong…” He inhales. “I dunno. Nothing I could’ve done, I s’pose.”

“He’s fine, anyway,” Niall says shortly. “No point in going on about it. He’s fine.”

Niall hadn’t taken it well at all, when Louis took him aside to tell him something had gone wrong. He’d gone very white and walked away with his hands in his hair, breathing jerkily. Then he'd called Barb in Ireland and talked to her in private, which he always does when he's upset and she's not near him.

Anne and Robin had only been told what was going on once Harry was in the clear. That had been at Gemma’s discretion. Now they sit next to her, their hands all clasped in a daisy chain, safe in the knowledge that he’s alright but still shaken by their brush with the unimaginable.

Cala hasn’t been told anything, although it’s obvious she knows something is up, in that canny way that children have. Mia’s kept her occupied, playing games with her and talking to her about any lighthearted thing she can think of.

Zayn steps into the waiting room, an exhausted mess in rumpled clothing, but smiling all the same.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” they chorus. Liam snorts in his sleep and jolts awake. “Hey,” he adds, blearily.

Cala bolts off of her seat and runs to Zayn, who kneels to hug her. They hold each other tightly for a very long moment.

“Where’s Daddy?” she says softly, looking up at him. “Is Daddy okay?”

Zayn clears his throat roughly. “He’s fine, darling,” he assures her. “He’s properly fine. He wants to see you, he wants you to meet the baby. I’ll take you back there in a minute, alright?”

She nods. Zayn straightens up, picking her up in the process and settling her on his hip, which is some feat considering how tired he is.

“So we’ve decided on a name, is why I came out here,” he says, grinning.

“Place your last-minute bets,” Gemma says, nudging Doniya.

“Last I heard they had narrowed it down to about fifty,” Doniya replies, and they erupt in laughter.

“Thanks for the support,” Zayn says drily.

“Always, bruv.”

“Anyway, drum roll, someone?”

Liam obliges.

“Our son is…” Zayn pauses for emphasis. “... Desmond William Bristol Matthew Styles-Malik.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Gemma exclaims.

“Oh, I like that, actually,” Anne says cheerfully. “It’s a bit long, but…”

“Bristol!” Cala says in excitement. “You named him Bristol!”

“We did, lovey,” Zayn affirms, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thought you’d like that.”

“Wait,” Louis says, holding up a hand. “Did I hear a William?”

Zayn grins at him. “You did, mate.”

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with me _,_ would it?”

“It would, in fact.”

“Sick!” Louis says, laughing in delight. “Wow, thank you, really. I’m touched.”

“Oh, sod off!” Niall complains. “When’s someone going to name a baby after _me_?”

“Hang on, Niall,” Zayn says, clearing his throat. “We want to ask if you’d like to be his godfather.”

Niall’s mouth falls open. “You’re jokin’!”

“No, mate.”

Louis glances at Niall, who’s beaming like the morning sun.

“‘Course I will,” Niall says. “God, yeah, in a heartbeat.”

“Who’s the godmother?” Louis says, glancing back at Zayn.

A smile spreads over Zayn’s tired face. He jerks his chin at Mia.

Mia looks up. “Me?” she says, looking shocked.

“Yeah, you. I have any other adult children?”

“Dunno, any you don’t know about?” she jokes. Niall snorts, and Louis winces.

“Yasmeen!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. No, of course, Dad, I’m completely honored, that’s really sweet of you.”

“Well, _I_ feel a bit left out, actually,” Liam says, putting his hand to his heart in mock-woundedness.

Zayn laughs. “Harry thought you’d be, so he wants me to tell you, you get to pick what ‘is first instrument is. Completely up to you.”

“Aww,” Liam says, with a crinkly-eyed smile. “I like that. Thanks, Harry.”

“By t’ way, we did bring the cigars,” Niall puts in. “But we can’t smoke ‘em in here, ‘cos England’s a fookin’ nanny state...”

“Fookin’ nanny state,” Louis echoes.

Zayn gives them a look, indicating Cala.

“I’m sorry, mate, we’re all very tired,” Niall says apologetically.

 “We’re going to ‘ead back now, I s’pose,” Zayn says, yawning. “Um, Anne, Doni, Yas, everybody, can you all give us, like, a three minute head start before you come back to meet him?”

They all assure him that this is fine, and he walks away with Cala, her small hand clasped in his.

 

*

 

Harry is half-asleep when Zayn and Cala peep their dark-haired heads in the doorway, smiling at him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up, immensely relieved to see his daughter. “Hi, lovebug. C’mere…”

She races toward him, clambering up on the gurney.

“Be careful of Daddy,” Zayn begs. “Don’t -- Daddy’s fragile, alright?”

Cala reaches up and touches Harry’s face. He smiles weakly at her and strokes her hair.

“You look sick,” she says, her voice quiet.

“I’m a little under the weather,” he tells her. “Snuggle up next to me, yeah?”

Zayn comes over and helps him maneuver her, then goes to the bassinet and fetches Desmond, then delivers him into Harry’s arms. Harry shifts so Cala can be the one supporting his shoulders and head. She gazes at him in awe.

“Why’s he so pink?” she says.

“He’s not used to being in the air,” Harry tells her.

“There’s not air in your tummy?”

“Right. Just water.”

“ _Water?_ ” she says, amazed.

“Water,” Harry confirms, pulling her close with his free hand and kissing her head. “He was like a little fish in there. I missed you, love. How was Nan’s?”

“Okay. We ate lasagne.”

Zayn is smiling at them from his seat in a chair by the bed.

Cala examines Desmond, who blinks up at her with his dark blue newborn eyes and yawns.

“What does he do?” she says.

“Not much yet,” Harry says, gazing warmly at the both of them. He settles back against the pillows. He could easily fall asleep like this; his kids in his arms, his husband right at his side.

“When can I play with him?”

“When he gets a little bigger. They grow up fast, love, I promise.”

“He’ll be boring at first,” Zayn tells her. “He'll sleep and eat and cry, and nothin’ else, really. He’ll take up a lot of our time and attention. But then he’ll get older and you can talk to him, and teach him things, and he’ll look up to you and think you're the coolest person in the world.”

“Really?”

“Really. That's the best part, trust me.”

 

*

 

Mia is the last to come in, after Harry’s family and Doniya. She lingers in the doorway for a moment.

“I can come by later,” she whispers. “If you’d like to get some rest, Harry…”

“No, it’s alright,” Harry assures her. “Come meet your brother.”

Zayn watches her as she walks over, gnawing her bottom lip. She takes the small bundle from Harry’s arms. Desmond fusses, and she softly says, “Shh, shh,” gazing at his face.

“God, you’re small,” she murmurs. “I feel so big and old…”

She shifts him in her arms and cups his little face, stroking his cheek, then slides her hand under his head again. Like Louis, she looks very natural with a baby in her arms.

“This is weird,” Mia says, glancing up at them. She sounds a bit overcome. “I didn’t think I’d have another brother… not by blood, anyway. So, so weird.”

“Good weird?” Harry says.

“Yeah,” she says, looking down at Desmond, her lips quirking up in a smile. “Absolutely a good weird.”

 

KENSINGTON, MARCH 11, 2039

Zayn’s entire family is waiting at the house when they get back around nine. Harry is dead on his feet and numbly waves to everyone before heading upstairs; Zayn brings the baby over to Trisha and parks him with her.

“Oh my goodness, how precious,” she coos, holding him aloft. “Wow, he's _very_ cute! You hardly see newborns this cute.”

Cala hops up on the couch next to her, peering at her brother.

“‘Scuse me, were my kids not that cute?” Doniya ribs her as she comes over and hands Zayn a glass of water. He takes it in confusion.

“You look dehydrated,” she explains.

“Oh, thanks.”

“All my grandchildren are gorgeous,” Trisha demurs, and reaches over to stroke Cala’s hair. “Yaser, look at little Des here...”

Yaser takes him and holds him in his arms. Desmond goes very quiet. The two of them regard each other for a moment, two creatures at the far poles of life. Zayn watches, leaning on the doorway.

Yaser nods. “Very cute baby,” he agrees.

“He's got Zayn’s cheeks, I think,” Trisha says, reaching over and gently pinching one of Desmond’s. “And he's quite long, isn't he? He'll be tall. Will you be tall like Harry? Hmm?”

Mia comes out of the kitchen with a cheese plate, grinning. “He’s going to be able to post up on Dad,” she says.

Zayn lets out a dry chuckle. “Long as he hasn’t got as half as smart a mouth as you, I’ll breathe easy.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that.”

“Love, is Harry alright?” Trisha whispers.

Zayn nods. “I’m about to go check on him, actually.”

He heads upstairs, tosses their bag of supplies on the bed and finds Harry in the master bath, sitting on the floor, his clothes discarded.

He looks up at Zayn with glassy large eyes, still pale, a cotton ball taped to his arm where his IV was.

“Oh, babe,” Zayn says in concern, coming over to him and kneeling down.

“I want to have a shower,” Harry says hoarsely, “but I'm so fucking tired…”

Zayn helps him up and over to the corner where the shower is. He sets the jets so they're knee-high, so Harry can stay seated on the linoleum. He very gently lathers up his hair, then plugs a shower head into the wall to rinse him as he waits for the shampoo to set in.

Zayn leans down and kisses Harry’s shoulder.

“You keep touching me like I'm made of glass,” Harry murmurs, giving him a smile.

“Oh, love,” Zayn says tiredly. “You’ve got no idea…”

“Can you fetch me a Demerol?”

Zayn goes into their bedroom and digs through the bag, pulling out one of several prescriptions Harry’s been given and shaking two pills into his hand. He grabs the water his sister handed him and returns to Harry, who is rinsing out his hair with clumsy hands.

“Thank you,” Harry says gratefully, taking them and swallowing. Zayn hovers over him anxiously, then picks up the showerhead and starts rinsing. It feels like a baptism; Harry’s head tipped back, his eyes closed, his dark hair falling in glossy wet waves. 

When he’s done he takes Harry to bed, dressing him like he’s a kid and tucking him in. He rubs Kiehl’s moisturizer onto his face and argan oil into his hair, pampering him. Harry begins to drift off as soon as he lies down.

Zayn stands at the edge of the bed, watching him, rigid with anxiety.

“Zayn,” Harry says sleepily. “Go see your family… go take care of the baby…”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’m fine, I just need to sleep…”

“I know you’re fine,” Zayn whispers, because he does. Medically, Harry is fully in the clear. But it’s going to take some time for that knowledge to penetrate the gray folds of Zayn’s lizard brain. Every few minutes, he relives Harry being rushed away, relives the sight of the bloody sheets and his bloodless face.

“Please, I’m alright, go take care of our baby,” Harry mumbles, and then about thirty seconds later he falls asleep, his face resting against his wrist on the pillow.

Zayn doesn’t go right away. He wants to be with the baby, but he knows Desmond is in good hands, and some primal impulse roots him to the spot. He sits at Harry’s bedside, stroking his hair, staring at him. A few times, he puts the back of his hand in front of Harry’s mouth to make sure he’s still breathing. He feels silly, but he doesn't care.

 

*

 

Harry sleeps like a rock the entire night. Zayn spoons him, dozing intermittently, getting up with the baby each time he cries. He stands in the milky dawn light, watching Harry’s chest rise and fall, rocking their sweet baby, who needs less soothing than Mia did.

“You take after me and your daddy,” Zayn whispers to him, gazing at his face, swaying back and forth. “We keep ourselves to ourselves, like...”

Desmond looks back at him, not focusing on his face, but seeming to recognize his voice. It’s a mild morning, not chilly at all, so Zayn takes him outside on the balcony and sings lullabies to him for a while, listening to the traffic on the street below, watching the sun come up over the city.

 

KENSINGTON, MARCH 12, 2039

The boys come by the next morning, fresh-faced and bearing gifts.

“Is Harry still asleep? Lazybones,” Niall says, bustling into the house and setting his heavy armload down in the great hall.

Zayn knows he’s all bluster; when he’d come back to meet the baby, he’d begun to cry in the middle of talking to Harry, which had made Harry tear up in response as he assured Niall that he was fine, just fine.

“He’ll get up if I tell him you lot are here,” Zayn says as he comes down the stairs, smiling, his hands in his pockets.

“No, no, lad!” Louis chirps, taking his sunglasses off as he steps in the house, tailed by Liam, who’s carrying a massive teddy bear. “Let him sleep, for God’s sake. By the way, is our kid here? She texted me she was.”

“Yeah, she took Boots and Cala out for a walk,” Zayn says. He guides them toward the sitting room. “Sorry, I’m a shit host today. No scones, or anythin’.”

“Boo,” Liam jokes, taking a seat on the couch. “No scones for your boy?”

“No scones for DJ Payno.”

“Well, I’m never coming back here again.”

“Where’s baby?” Louis says, rocking back and forth from his tiptoes to his heels. He’s all bouncy and frenetic today. Zayn suspects Harry’s scare spooked him, too, although he doubts he’d admit it.

“He’s obsessed with your baby, this one,” Liam says, grinning up at Zayn. “I’m half-expecting to come home one day and find he’s kidnapped him.”

“He’s a very cute baby, is all!” Louis defends himself. “Very easy, too.”

“I’ve just left him for a mo,” Zayn says, raising his watch, which is set to baby monitor. “Going to bring him down here, if you all like.”

There’s a soft throat-clearing from the doorway, and they all turn.

“Not necessary,” Harry says with a gentle smile. He’s got Desmond in his arms, held to his shoulder, one of his little fists gripping Harry’s bathrobe.

“Hey,” they all chorus.

Zayn smiles at him, partly in relief at how much better he looks: color in his cheeks, lustre in his hair and voice. Harry beams back.

“He was fussy, so I got up… What day is it?” he says.

Zayn laughs. “Still Tuesday.”

“Thank God,” Harry murmurs, looking down at Desmond. “I could’ve sworn I slept for a week.”

“Bring me that baby,” Louis demands, holding his arms out. “And then go promise Niall you’re alright, ‘cos he’s been freaking out since yesterday.”

Liam grins, glancing over at him.

“I haven’t!” Niall protests. “I know he’s fine!”

Harry comes over to Louis and deposits the baby gingerly in his arms, his hair falling in his face as he leans over.

Louis beams at Desmond, cooing to him. Zayn watches this, puzzled but happy.

Harry does up his robe and sits between Zayn and Niall, patting Niall on the leg. “Hi,” he says to him.

“Hi,” Niall says with a wry smile. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” Harry says. He glances at Zayn. “Did you get up with the baby all night?”

Zayn nods. “All night, aye. Didn’t want him to wake you.”

Harry mouths _thank you_ , then reaches up and cups Zayn’s face, stroking his cheek; Zayn takes his hand and gently squeezes it.

They've both still got their hospital wristbands on, although Zayn had carefully clipped Desmond’s off of him last night while he was changing him. He didn't want it to irritate his delicate baby skin.

“How’re the, uh... things I left for you workin’ out?” Louis says to Harry, glancing up from the baby.

“Oh, fantastic,” Harry says. “Thanks, mate. And putting them in the freezer is a _great_ idea.”

Louis grins and nods. “Right?”

“Puttin’ what in the freezer?” Zayn says curiously.

“Never you mind.”

Liam laughs. “I know what he's talking about.”

“That's nice for you, Liam, but I like to keep a bit of mystery in my marriage,” Harry says, settling against Zayn, who pulls him close.

Niall snorts. “Louis an’ Liam live inside each other's belly buttons, practically.”

Liam nudges Louis and mouths _belly buttons._ It takes Louis a second, but he laughs loudly at whatever the joke between them is.

“Do we live in each other’s belly buttons?” Louis says in a baby voice, holding Desmond aloft and blowing a raspberry on him. “Do we, baby?” Desmond hiccups and burbles. “God, what a sweetheart. I'm besotted.”

“He is awfully cute, isn't he?” Harry says in a soft little voice.

Louis gets up and hands him back to Harry, who accepts him gratefully into his arms, kissing his head and cooing to him. He lays him across his chest and rubs his back in gentle circles.

Liam claps his hands onto his thighs. “Well, lads, we don't want to keep you, I know you're both exhausted --”

“No, no, I like the company,” Harry protests. Desmond screws up his face like he might cry, and Harry starts bouncing him on his leg. “Don't leave us just yet…”

“Thought we'd be an imposition,” Niall says, reaching over and squeezing his leg.

“No, I'm --” Harry gets a little choked up. “Sorry, I’m all hormonal. It's just so wonderful you all stayed the entire time, I’m really -- I’m so lucky to have you…” he swipes at his eyes. “You're the brothers I never had, I mean that.”

“Stop that right now, I'll cry too,” Niall exclaims.

Louis laughs, looking a bit misty himself. “‘Course we stayed… had to see you through to the end of it, right?”

The baby burbles again, blowing a spit bubble. Zayn gets a tissue and wipes his mouth, smiling at him.

“And it all worked out,” Liam says cheerily. “You got your boy.”

“We did,” Zayn says. “Just eighteen years with him, and then when we’re seventy, we can have some alone time.”

Harry grins. “Alone time is overrated.”

“Going to politely disagree,” Louis says, looking to Liam for backup. “I can't wait ‘til we get Oliver out of the house. ‘Course I'll miss him like crazy, but ever since we went to Wales, there's so many holidays I want to take just the two of us.”

“We ought to start planning,” Liam says. “We can leave the day he goes to uni. Drop him off and head straight for the airport.”

“We've got to get him into uni, first,” Louis reminds him.

Liam rubs at his facial hair in contemplation. “Fuck. _That_ bit.”

“How’re his marks?” Harry says, glancing over at them, shifting Desmond in his arms. Zayn reaches out for him, and Harry hands him over.

Desmond looks up at Zayn with mild interest as Zayn cups the back of his head in his palm and makes funny faces at him.

Louis does a so-so gesture with his hand. “Not bad. Not great, either. It's just he's so wrapped up in rugby and goofing around with all his little mates, ‘e don't pay much attention in class.”

Harry nods sympathetically. “He's a good writer...”

“He is! I think it embarrasses him. It isn't cool, whatever. He doesn't _want_ to be all serious and thinky, even though he really sort of is.”

“He could write lyrics,” Zayn says. “That’s not uncool.”

“Well, he doesn't have much time for guitar anymore,” Liam says. “To Niall’s great disappointment.”

“I'm wounded, lads,” Niall says, clapping his palm to his chest. “Me own son ain't got hands big enough, still.”

Louis snorts. “D’you check daily, mate?”

“Ay, yeah. ‘Jimmy, c’mere, let Da measure your hands. Don't run, lad, get back here.’”

Louis laughs in delight at this mental image.

The front door opens, letting light and the noise of the street outside into the main hall. They hear Mia swearing at the dog, and then Cala skips into the sitting room.

She stops in the middle, looking shy at the fact that there's company.

“There you are... C’mere,” Harry says, spreading his arms. She beelines for him and he puts a cautionary hand out. “Careful! Careful. I’ve got ouchies, remember, sweets?”

“Sorry,” she says, and demurely climbs into his lap.

Zayn tips Desmond so she can look at him. She strokes his head with her little hand, very gently.

“Does he do anything new today?” she says.

Harry laughs. “No, angel, not today.”

“He spit up on me this morning,” Zayn says. “His first spit-up. So that's new.”

Mia comes into the sitting room, red-faced. “Me and Boots aren't on speaking terms,” she says. “He dragged me up and down the street, and then he piddled on your neighbor’s gatepost while she stood in her garden glaring at me the entire time.”

“Boots doesn't speak,” Harry says cheekily. “He can't be on speaking terms.”

“Well, regardless,” she huffs. “Hi dads, did you just get in?”

“Hello love,” Louis says, stretching his legs out over Liam's lap. “Yes we did. Can you put on a kettle?”

She shoots him a glare.

“Just since you're already up,” he says, winking at her. Liam stifles a laugh.

“You know where you can stick a kettle,” she jokingly threatens.

“Let me guess, up me own arse?”

“ _Please_ ,” Harry says, covering Cala’s ears. “We’re in mixed company, you goons.”

“Sorry, we forget ourselves,” Louis says with a grin.

“I was raised in a barn,” Mia says, as she takes her scarf off and goes back into the hall.

“Are you making tea, then?” Louis yells after her.

“Yes!” she shouts back.

“You're the best!”

“Wait for me,” Cala calls after Mia, and scampers off Harry’s lap to run after her.

Zayn fondly watches her go. “She idolizes her, it’s funny,” he says.

“I really think Mims likes having a little sister,” Louis says, with a smile on his lips.

Harry motions for Zayn to pass their baby back to him. He does, and Harry brings him close, burying his nose in the crook of Desmond’s neck.

“Baby baby,” he murmurs, and kisses him.

“‘E's so quiet,” Zayn marvels.

“Don't say that, he'll start crying,” Harry says with a chuckle.

 

*

 

The boys stay for about a half-hour longer. Desmond hasn’t eaten for a bit and starts to wail, so Zayn whisks him away and gives him a bottle while he hangs with Mia and Cala in the kitchen.

“Christ,” he says at one point. “I’ve got three kids, don’t I?”

“Yes Dad,” Mia says, amused, looking up from cooking Cala a grilled cheese.

Zayn looks up from the baby in the crook of his arm and blinks at her in tired amazement. “When’d _that_ happen?”

“Um… yesterday?”

When he comes back into the hall, Louis and Harry are having a very tight hug while Liam looks on, his hands clasped, backlit by the sun streaming in the arched transom.

Liam glances at Zayn and gives him a sweet little smile, which he returns.

He welcomed Liam back into his heart years ago, but that moment between them in the hospital made Zayn more grateful for him than he thought was possible -- to the point that it feels like a tangible debt that he owes him. But Liam would never think of it that way, he wouldn’t even want to be thanked for it.

Zayn makes his mind up to find a way to thank him, anyway.

Louis whispers something to Harry and Harry murmurs back, “I know, I know,” and then they separate, somewhat emotionally, patting each other on the shoulders as if to dispel whatever passed between them.

Harry and Niall hug for a good long time, Niall apparently squeezing Harry hard enough that he has to whisper, “Remember I’m a bit banged up, mate,” at which Niall immediately releases him, apologizing. Harry tousles his hair and shakes his head, smiling.

When they’ve all piled into their car and gone, Harry leans against the wall with his eyes closed and inhales deeply.

Zayn comes over and shuffles Desmond so he can squeeze Harry’s arm. “Hey,” he says.

Harry opens his eyes and wets his lips. “I’m alright,” he tries.

“No, you need to go to bed.”

Harry looks defeated. “My friends are coming by later… and my family after that...”

“I’ll sit with ‘em.” Zayn sees he’s hesitating, so in a sharper voice, he says, “I’m not fuckin’ around, here. You need to lie down. The doctor told you stay off your feet if you can.”

“I know, I know…”

Mia walks in, wiping her hands off on her jeans. “Hey there,” she says.

“Are you staying?” Harry says to her, shrugging his robe more securely over his shoulders.

“Yeah, why not? Figured you need help with Cala and stuff, so… ‘Less you want me out of your hair?”

“No, no,” Harry assures her.

“We appreciate the help, love. We’re just off to ‘ave a little lie-down.”

“Want me to take the baby?” Mia offers.

“Nah, he can have a lie-down too.”

 

*

 

Upstairs in the darkened master bedroom, Zayn sets Desmond down in his crib next to their bed.

Harry undresses slowly, dropping his robe to the floor and peeling himself out of his pajama pants so he's just in his boxers. He's still sore on some deep level he's never felt before. It feels like someone’s played with his insides like putty, stretching them out and wrapping them around each other. He feels little and human in a bad way. He's always prided himself on being larger than life.

Zayn beckons him over. With relief, Harry comes to his husband, lying down and snuggling back against him, pulling his old maternity pillow to his chest. Zayn pulls the covers over both of them and spoons him firmly, wrapped over him like a turtle’s shell. Harry relaxes in his arms like he does nowhere else.

“You didn’t have to put on a brave face for them,” Zayn murmurs to him. “They wouldn’t mind if you were a bit tired and not yourself…”

“It’s alright,” Harry whispers. “Makes me feel better to.”

“Alright. You need anythin’?”

“Just for you to hold me.”

“I can do that.”

They’ve almost drifted off when Desmond fusses. Harry instinctively makes a move to get up, but Zayn stills him.

“Hang on,” he whispers. “He’s changed and fed. If he isn’t full-on crying, let him try and soothe himself.”

“But --”

“Just wait, Haz.”

Desmond quiets down, his fussing trailing off into soft coos and then the quiet of his breathing with the occasional burble.

“Fuck... look at that,” Harry says softly. “Only a day old and he’s getting independent.”

Zayn laughs and kisses the back of his neck. “Hey, you’re feelin’ alright?” he murmurs. “Nothing’s dodgy, is it?”

“What?” Harry says, surprised. He snuggles deeper into his touch, pressing his back hard to Zayn’s warm, wiry torso. “Yeah, I’m fine…”

“Not bleeding?”

Harry lets out a weak little laugh, not really wanting to discuss this with him. When it becomes clear he’s waiting for an answer, he says, “I’ve just had a baby, Zayn, it’s normal to bleed for a bit…”

“But not excessive, like?”

“No, love. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Okay,” Zayn replies, but his arms tighten around Harry.

Harry brings one of his hands to his lips and kisses it. “What’s wrong?” he says hoarsely.

“What’s wrong? I could’ve lost you, is what’s wrong. I’m just spooked. I’m sorry, I don’t want t’ keep you up, let’s go to sleep…”

Harry buries his face in the pillow. Words seem to be taking even longer to make to his mouth than usual. He lies there in silence for about ten seconds, struggling.

“You didn’t lose me,” he finally says.

“I know, I know, babe, I know. It’s alright. Forget it.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers. He’s so tired, but he’s sick with guilt. Zayn was the person he thought of, as he stared up at the ceiling of the OR and they put the mask on him, fading him into unconsciousness. Zayn, in between his desperate thoughts of Cala and Desmond.

“Stop apologizing, please,” Zayn whispers.

“I dunno what else to do.”

“Anythin’ but that, baby.”

“I didn't mean to scare you.”

“ _You_ didn't scare me. What ‘appened to you scared me.”

Harry gingerly rolls over onto his back, and Zayn sits up and moves out of his way, looking down at him and stroking his bicep. The gray in his hair is so evident when it frames his worried face.

“Just please let's don't dwell on it,” Harry begs him. “Let's just be happy in our life, with our new baby… I just want to be happy…”

“I know, baby, I know…” Zayn drags in a breath and sighs it back out.

Harry looks up at him in the dark. He bites the inside of his cheek. “You won't, like -- this isn't going to set you back, is it?”

“What d’you mean?” Zayn’s eyebrows spring up. “Like make me start drinking?”

“No, no! God, that isn't what I meant -- like trigger your anxiety, I dunno…” Harry rubs at his eyes tiredly. “Make your treatments less effective…”

Zayn bends over and kisses his shoulder. “I'll talk to me doctor,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, to make sure. But I'm coping just fine, angel.”

Harry is relieved by this. “Alright.”

Zayn’s warm lips move over his skin, kissing down his bicep, over his tattoos.

“Don't feel responsible,” he says.

“I do,” Harry says, his voice rough. His hand is still over his eyes. “I feel -- Christ. When I lost the baby, each time I did, when _this_ happened -- I felt like, God, what the fuck have I done to Zayn?”

Zayn tears up and lies down next to him again, stroking his hair. “No,” he says, in a heartbroken voice. “No, babe, every time I've asked myself what _I'd_ done to _you_ \--”

Harry buries his face in the pillow. “Don't,” he begs, aching with the weight of this.

Zayn pulls him close again, kissing and nuzzling him, murmuring sweet nothings to him.

“I don't want to dwell on any of it,” Harry says again, his heart clenched so hard in his chest he feels sick. “I don't.”

“But it -- we've got to talk about things…”

“I just want to be happy,” Harry cries, his voice so low and rough that his chest quakes from forcing it out.

The baby makes a noise in his sleep, and they both freeze for a moment, waiting to see if he’ll wake up. He doesn't. Harry relaxes in relief, dropping his head to the crook of his arm. Zayn lies back down behind him, spooning him again, his arms protective.

“We _are_ happy,” he whispers. “But bad things happen too. Can't we talk about that?”

“Maybe I push things down too much,” Harry says. “Maybe I'm too closed off… but how do I change that? Force myself to talk about horrible things, when all that does is hurt me? I want to live in the right now…”

“But you can't, always.”

Harry has an internal throb of pain. He fumbles on the bedside table for his Demerol and takes one.

“I'll come in with you,” he offers. “If you like. When you see your doctor. She can talk to me as well, if that'd make you feel better.” He pauses, and says softly, “I want you to feel better.”

“I know, Haz.” Zayn hesitates. “Look… you'll ‘ave to let me be anxious about you, and protective. It's just the new reality for a while.”

“I don't want you to have to be anxious.”

“Well, I’m an anxious person, like.” He laughs, his breath warm against Harry’s back. “It's alright, love. You're fine, the baby's fine. Knowing that makes me alright. Everythin’ else is just details.”

Harry settles back against him, wanting to be held as firmly in his arms as possible. “Okay,” he murmurs, and yawns.

 

*

 

Zayn wakes an hour or so later, both because he hears the baby is fussing and because the app on his watch that tells him when the baby makes a noise over a certain decibel is making his wrist buzz insistently where it's pinned under Harry.

With care, he untangles himself from his husband and goes to Desmond, taking him in the hall to soothe him, idly listening to his daughters’ voices downstairs.

But Desmond refuses to be soothed. He wails and wails like a little cat who's been denied his dinner. Zayn sings to him, his singing growing more and more strained, bouncing from foot to foot and rocking him.

“You can't need fed yet,” Zayn mutters. “You're not wet... Help me out, here.”

As a last resort, he brings the baby back to Harry and nudges him. Harry protests weakly at being woken.

“I know, I'm sorry, babe, but he wants you, I think…”

“Oh,” Harry says, opening his eyes and looking blearily at the crying baby. “That's what that noise is, I thought I was dreaming… well, c'mere, baby.”

He accepts Desmond into his arms and holds him close, cuddling him and kissing him, cooing softly to him. Desmond soothes quickly, his wails trailing off to hiccupy sobs that grow quieter and quieter.

Zayn climbs into bed next to them, wrapping an arm around Harry, watching him as he gazes with adoration at the little infant in his arms.

“My family,” he says emotionally, kissing Harry on the temple. Harry leans into him and lets out a happy sigh.

 

KENSINGTON, MARCH 20, 2039

_Harry Styles (45) and husband Zayn Malik (46) looked every inch the proud papas in their first public sighting since their son Desmond was born._

 

_The appearance was brief, as the second-time fathers were snapped in their tony Kensington neighborhood while attempting to install a baby seat into a car._

 

_Harry wore baby Desmond in a sling and kept his face hidden from cameras with a knit hat, while he appeared to give instruction to Zayn, who was dressed down in a black sweater and Ray Bans._

 

_Meanwhile, Harry was glowing in a loose button-down and tight jeans. He gave birth only about a week ago -- on March 11, according to sources close to the family._

 

_Security kept watch nearby as the newlyweds consulted with each other on how to install the seat, seeming frustrated. At one point, Harry picked up a booklet of instructions and begin waving it around, which Zayn appeared to ignore._

 

_Once the seat was installed, though, the lovebirds exchanged a sweet kiss on the lips before they went back into the house._

 

_Exclusive baby photos of Desmond would reportedly fetch as much as twenty million dollars, but so far, Harry and Zayn have shown no interest in cashing in on that potential payday._

 

LONDON, MARCH 28, 2039

“Hey!” Oliver yells as he comes back into the foyer. “You lot got a card from Harry and Zayn!”

Louis is cuddled against Liam on the couch in the den as they watch Chelsea play Liverpool live on the hologram display over the coffee table. They look at each other in amazement.

“A paper card?” Louis calls. “In the post, like?”

“Yeah,” Oliver says, coming into the room. “He put a heart sticker on the -- what's this thing?”

“It's called an envelope,” Liam says in amusement.

“Yeah, that. And he wrote ‘babystagram’, I dunno what that means…”

Liam laughs. “Birth announcement?”

“I guess?” Louis says, taking it from Oliver. “God, a paper card in the post. I think the last thing I got in the post was a summons when Sam Gores sued one of my agents.”

He tears the envelope open. The card is plain and tasteful, with small black print on thick white stock.

_AN ANNOUNCEMENT FROM HARRY STYLES AND ZAYN MALIK..._

_INTRODUCING DESMOND WILLIAM BRISTOL MATTHEW STYLES-MALIK, A.K.A. DES_

_BORN MARCH 11, 2039, 1:32 P.M._

_9 LBS 2 OUNCES, 22 INCHES_

_SEEMS TO ENJOY: DANCE POP & MOTOWN_

“ _God_ , that’s a big baby,” Louis mutters.

“Wasn't I a big baby?” Oliver says.

“You were eight pounds, five ounces,” Liam says. “Mia was six and six.”

“Aww, look how he remembers,” Louis says, squeezing his knee.

Liam taps his temple proudly. “I'm still pissing it about this name,” he says. “Where is this kid in line for the throne, exactly? Ninth?”

Louis laughs. “Well, they did knight Harold, didn't they?”

“Didn't knight him! He's a commander of the British Empire, is all.”

“Why aren't you two commanders of the British empire?” Oliver says, grinning.

“‘Cos King Charles is absolute rubbish,” Louis says. “If I weren’t republican to start with... Giving Harry a title ‘cos he brings money into England, like _we've_ never brought any money in?” He elbows Liam. “Your dad here’s produced seventy hits in the U.K. alone!”

“We’re vastly underappreciated in our time, Tommo.”

“Open the card,” Oliver says, tapping it.

“I wonder if they sent Mims one of these,” Louis says, flipping it open. Inside, there's two photos on each wing of the card, both in black and white; the first is a close-up of Desmond lying on a bed, looking up at something or someone, already camera-ready and very photogenic despite being two weeks old.

The second is a photo of Zayn and Harry lying on their bed on either side of the baby, fussing over him and smiling broadly, all tattooed and handsome and happy.

“Those are really nice,” Liam says fondly.

“They are, yeah.” Louis squints. “Hang on, have they already pierced his ears?”

In a very similar manner, Oliver and Liam lean in to get a closer look.

Oliver laughs. “They have, haven't they?”

“Even odds on whose idea that was,” Liam says.

“Want to bet, and then ask them next time we see them?” Louis says.

“Sure. Two thousand pounds on Zayn.”

“Alright, three on Harry.”

“Five it was mutual,” Oliver says.

“Where’ve you got five thousand pounds from?” Louis says, glancing up at him with a grin.

“Was just going to borrow it from you.”

“Oh, well alright then.”

“Bets on when Des gets his first tattoo?” Liam says.

"Oh, wants to play the long game, does he?” says Louis. “Um, fourteen.”

“Twelve.”

“Eleven.”

“Ten.”

“Are we counting down a space launch, Payno?”

“You all have loads of tattoos, and _I_ haven't got any,” Oliver points out.

“Not yet,” Louis jokes. “Not that we know of.”

Oliver grins. “I'm clean, I swear!”

“If you got one, what would you get?” Liam says, setting the card on the coffee table.

“Uhh… my club team logo, I s’pose.”

“What, that fucking badger thing?” Louis exclaims. “Oh, kiddo, don't.”

“Well, good thing I'm not eighteen, yeah?” Oliver says as he sashays out of the room. “Have we got peanut butter?”

“Yeah, I just bought you some more,” Liam calls after him.

“Cheers, Dad!”

Louis settles back against Liam’s chest. Liam absentmindedly kisses him on the head.

“That was a sweet card,” Louis says. “I’m properly happy for them.”

“They had a tough go of it,” Liam murmurs.

“They did, didn't they? Poor Harry.”

“Poor both of them.”

Louis sighs. Across from them, the fire flickers warmly.

“They seem alright, though,” he says. “When I saw Harry the other week, he was all smiley. Told me he's busting his arse to lose all the baby weight before the Met Gala.”

“What baby weight, even?”

Louis laughs. “That's what _I_ said, and he looked at me funny.”

Liam hesitates a bit before he says, “He told me a few days ago he's been going in for a bit of therapy.”

“What? Since when?”

“He didn't say. A week or two?”

“He didn't tell _me_ that.”

Liam shrugs. “Me and him talk,” he says, and nudges him. “Like you and Zayn talk.”

“Huh,” Louis mutters. “What for?”

“Hmm?”

“What's he going to therapy for?”

“Couple of things,” Liam says, settling in comfortably against the couch. “His dad, for one… and the, um,” he gestures awkwardly.

“Miscarriages?” Louis supplies. He knows Liam is squeamish about these things.

“Right. And Zayn's gone back because he's been struggling with -- you know, what happened at the hospital.”

Louis nods in understanding. “So we're all ‘avin’ our heads shrunk on a regular basis.”

“Except Niall,” Liam says with a chuckle.

“Golf is Niall’s therapy, he says.” Louis glances up at the tiny football players on the hologram display. “Shit, I've got no idea what's going on in this match.”

“Want to rewind it?” Liam says. “But first, d’you want ice cream? I sort of want some ice cream.”

“Payno,” Louis says, bouncing to his feet and clapping Liam on the shoulder. “I love the way your mind works.”


End file.
